Homecoming, OR Adapt & Overcome
by 1note
Summary: Walter and Chloe arrive in the town of Jubilation where Walter discovers it's more difficult to leave Rorschach behind than he thought. Meanwhile, the rest of the town tries to adjust to this mysterious newcomer. Sequel to "Breath and Skin" & "Hurt You?"
1. A Great Start

**A/N:** Well, already I'm getting into a sequel. I just can't seem to let these characters go! This story is going to focus on Walter adjusting to life in Jubilation, while at the same time Jubilation adjusts to him. Should be interesting, former city crime fighter in a bucolic country town. Wonder how things'll go.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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"_Whuff!"_ Nixon, the world's laziest dog, performed his one and only duty; he let the Lady-Who-Fed-Him know that a vehicle approached.

Elsie Mayweather grabbed her cane and hauled herself up from the sofa. She switched the TV off and headed for the front door as fast as she dared; her balance was still a bit off, courtesy of a most annoying mild stroke. She pulled open the front door just as a familiar pickup pulled into the driveway. Elsie sighed with relief; Chloe was home. Upon learning of the devastating attack on New York City, she had feared the worst for her niece. Thankfully, Chloe had phoned her hours later to reassure Elsie that her niece had not been in the city limits at the time of the attack, that she had found her man, Walter, alive in the wreckage and was bringing him back to Jubilation. Chloe had phoned every day since then, letting her aging aunt know of their progress. Now they were here, at Elsie's home on the outskirts of the little town of Jubilation. Thank god.

"What the hell kept you?" Elsie called as she negotiated the porch steps.

Chloe climbed out of the borrowed pickup, slammed the door shut with a rattling bang. A man exited the passenger side; perhaps a hair taller than Chloe, redheaded, with pale white skin dusted with freckles, a prominent five o'clock shadow, and piercing blue eyes. It was a face Elsie recognized from the news: Walter Kovacs, also known as Rorschach, the notorious masked vigilante. Days before he had been captured in a police ambush, which prompted Chloe's abrupt departure for the city. While she was on the road Rorschach escaped from Sing-Sing with the help of fellow mask and long-ago partner Nite Owl. His escape had dominated the news…until the attack occurred which left three million New Yorkers dead, fifteen million worldwide. It was doubtful the authorities would make his recapture a priority, even if they believed he still lived.

While Elsie trusted her niece's judgment and common sense, the sight of this man who was known to have beaten larger men to death with his bare hands gave Elsie pause. The mottled bruises still healing on his face plus the intensity of his gaze didn't help.

"Els!" Chloe ran up to the older woman and threw her arms around her.

Elsie returned her embrace with a sigh of relief. "You okay, baby?"

"We're fine." Chloe stepped back, motioned the redhead over. "Walter, I want you to meet my aunt Elsie. Els, this is Walter."

The two people Chloe loved most in the world eyed each other with reservation. Walter, hesitant, held out his hand. "Hello," he murmured, low and gravelly.

Elsie switched her cane to her other hand and completed the handshake. "Pleased to meet you." It wasn't an outright lie; she was curious about the man who had won her niece's heart. "Well, c'mon in. You both are probably hungry." She turned, mounted the low porch steps, heard the echoing thumps of two other sets of feet behind her.

What Walter had initially assumed to be an extraordinarily ugly rug turned out to be a large, extraordinarily ugly dog. He eyed the creature warily; he didn't like dogs. Not since Blaire Roche.

"Relax," Chloe smiled, "That's just Nixon."

"Nixon?"

"Elsie names all her dogs after U.S. Presidents," Chloe chuckled. She held the screen door open for him. Walter stepped inside. The interior of the picturesque little blue house was everything he'd expected, minus the doilies. Matching overstuffed sofa and chairs in subdued floral print; dozens of framed photos on the walls, the mantelpiece; dried flowers arranged in a glass vase perfectly centered on the coffee table. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and cinnamon. Walter felt so out of place in this cozy home, like a vagrant in an art museum.

"Have a seat," Elsie pointed to the sofa with her cane, "I'll rustle up something from the kitchen."

Walter reluctantly sank into the sofa, then sank even further, to his growing alarm. Chloe couldn't quite stifle a giggle at his wide-eyed expression. "Relax! It's not gonna eat you."

"You sure?"

Laughing, Chloe bent down and kissed his forehead. "I need to make a call. Be right back." She headed in the same direction as her aunt. The house only had two phones, one upstairs in Elsie's room and the other hanging on the wall in the kitchen. Chloe unhooked the off-white receiver and dialed Henry Dobbins's number while Elsie rummaged in the fridge for last night's leftovers.

"Hank? It's Chloe. Yeah, we made it," she smiled at the familiar basso voice of her childhood friend, "Truck's in the driveway. You can pick it up whenever. Okay. See you soon. Bye." She hung up.

"Does Walter like lasagna?" Elsie asked, holding up a pan more than three-quarters full.

Chloe shrugged. "I don't think he'll feel one way or the other about it, long as it's edible."

"Hmph!" Elsie sniffed, her guest's indifference offending her culinary sensibilities. To her mind, if people went around not caring what they ate they might as well just gather around the trough with the other dumb animals. "Then I guess I won't bother to reheat this." She set the pan on the counter, got two plates from a cupboard, and sectioned off portions of the pasta dish for transferal.

Chloe smirked at her aunt's piqued reaction. "Els, if anybody can turn him into a gourmand, it's you."

"Well, he could sure use the extra weight," Elsie said, somewhat mollified by the flattery, "That boy's as skinny as a rail." She dug out two forks from a drawer, set them on the plates beside the lasagna servings. Chloe picked up the laden plates and stepped out before her aunt could protest.

Walter hadn't stirred from his hunched seated position; hadn't dared. He just _knew _he was going to break some treasured heirloom at some point, and Elsie did not look like the forgiving sort.

"C'mere," Chloe beckoned with a jerk of her head as she went to the oak dinette and set the plates on the table. Walter extricated himself from the ravenous sofa and shuffled over. He took the chair beside the already settled Chloe, picked up his fork with an uncertain look. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Elsie clomped a glass of iced tea beside him. Chloe struggled not to laugh at the redhead's edginess. Here was a man who had single-handedly taken on whole gangs of ruffians armed to the teeth without a moment's qualm, yet in the presence of the forceful personality that was Elsie Mayweather he was as jumpy as a rabbit sneaking into a vegetable garden laced with landmines. If he only knew what a softie Elsie really was.

"Eat up," Elsie said, taking the empty third seat with her own glass of tea. Walter took it as an order and stabbed his fork into the cold pasta. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and chewed, then paused as signals from his taste buds suddenly reached his brain. Food had never been more than a means of replenishing his body's energy. It never really occurred to him to care about the _taste_. At least, not until now.

"Good?" Chloe asked, the corner of her mouth quirked in a half-smile.

Walter swallowed, took another bite. He chewed slowly this time, analyzing the array of flavors. He didn't have the vocabulary to describe it. The only spices he knew of were salt and pepper, the only cheese the kind that came in individually wrapped slices and had the texture of melted plastic, the only tomato product the kind that came in a bottle. His poor tongue was suffering from sensory overload.

"Delicious," he managed after another swallow.

Elsie beamed. That was one point in his favor.

Before he knew it, Walter's plate was empty. He picked it up in both hands, stared imploringly at the older woman across from him. "More?" then, after a moment's consideration, "Please."

Elsie rose and took the plate from him, flashing a warm smile that caused an unfamiliar emotion in Walter. A touch on his knee brought his attention to the woman beside him. Chloe's smile brought on a feeling he was more acquainted with; Walter smiled back, placed his hand over hers.

"_Whuff!"_

Walter jumped.

"It's okay," Chloe stood and headed for the front door, "It's probably just Hank here to get his truck back."

Walter rose from his seat to follow her. He stood on the porch and watched as two men pulled up in a red car; one about Elsie's age, his white halo of curls offsetting his dark mahogany skin; the other, younger, very tall and thin with yellow-gold skin and almond eyes. The younger man unfolded himself from the red car and hurried over to Chloe who stood with her arms open and grinning. The man scooped the shorter woman up in a bear hug. Chloe giggled, feet dangling like a child's. Jealousy flared white-hot within Walter.

"Thank god," the tall man gushed as he set her down, but kept his long arms circled around her, "When I saw the attack on the news I thought the worst, till Elsie let me know you called. You okay?"

"We're fine," Chloe answered. Walter felt a tad smug over the "we." Chloe stepped back from the circle of her friend's arms and beckoned the redhead over. "Walter," she put her hand on his shoulder, "This is Henry Dobbins, one of my oldest friends. Hank, this is Walter."

The two contrasting men sized each other up. Henry offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you," he lied.

Walter took the proffered hand with more firmness than was strictly necessary in a handshake. "Likewise," he also lied, voice a hair's breadth from a snarl.

Chloe stared at the two men and suddenly wondered if introducing them to each other was such a good idea. "Um, hey, Zane!" She waved at the older man who waved back from the car's driver side. "Zane's Hank's father," she said, hoping to distract the two men from their staring contest, "He manages the general store. Hank helps him out there--"

"When I'm not busy acting as sheriff," Henry added coldly.

_Aw, hell._

If anything, Walter's eyes got even flintier. "Town sheriff," he rasped, "Tin star and everything?"

"Yeah," Hank drawled, "Even got me a gun."

"Hokay! Well, we don't wanna keep you from your busy day," Chloe hastily stepped between the two men, grabbing Walter's hand and smiling up at her childhood friend. "Thanks again for loaning me your pickup. Uh, I'm afraid I had a flat along the way, didn't get a new spare."

"That's fine." Hank's expression thawed a bit as he addressed her. "Needs some new tires, anyway." He flashed another glare at the redhead, gave Chloe a we'll-talk-later look. "See ya around, Chlo." He sauntered over to his pickup, climbed inside, and started the engine. He followed his father's car as they backed out of the driveway and onto the road, headed back for the store.

"That went well," Elsie observed from the screen door.

Chloe let go of Walter's hand, turned and went back into the house, back rigid. Walter glowered at the retreating vehicles as they shrank into the distance. A _thunk_ from Elsie's cane drew his attention to the older woman. "Word of advice, young fella. Don't be in any hurry to make enemies around here. Jubilation's a small town, and you're just a stranger from the city." She turned and followed her niece back inside.

Walter sighed, angry with himself. Barely an hour into his first day and he'd already pissed off the local law enforcement, not to mention Chloe. As he turned to go inside, he wasn't sure which he felt was worse.

Nixon shifted his tail the minimal distance necessary to avoid its getting trampled by the Man-Who-Smelled-Of-Smog who had come with the Woman-Who-Once-Cried-Too-Much. The house was getting far too crowded for Nixon's liking. Crowded houses brought excitement, and the lazy dog didn't like excitement; it detracted from his precious napping which was the key to his longevity. Nixon sighed. Oh, well. Whaddya gonna do? Either way, he still got fed.

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Elsie insisted they move into her bedroom while she took the guest room. "You two need the bigger bed more than I do," she smirked, eliciting a roll of the eyes from Chloe and a blush from Walter.

Chloe helped her transfer the contents of her dresser and change the sheets on the beds. Night had set in, and the couple was tired from their long journey. Elsie wished them pleasant dreams as they turned in early.

In the bathroom, Walter stared at the claw-footed bathtub while he brushed his teeth. It looked deep enough to swim in. He wondered how the diminutive Elsie got in and out of it without a stepladder.

"Y'know," Chloe said from the sink, spitting a mouthful of toothpaste, "You could have put a little more effort into acting civil towards Hank."

Walter didn't answer, concentrating on his molars.

"I mean," Chloe continued as she rinsed her brush and dropped it in the cup. _Plink. _"I pretty much grew up with the guy. I've spent every summer here since I was six and nearly all those times he was the kid I played with the most. I'm not saying you have to _like_ him, but you could try to make a good impression for my sake, at least."

Walter rinsed his mouth, spat into the sink. "Didn't tell me he's a cop."

Chloe sighed. "It doesn't matter. Hank trusts me. As long as you don't break any laws here, he'll leave you alone."

Walter mumbled something. "…leave _you_ alone."

"What?" Chloe turned on him.

Walter fidgeted under her angry glare. "Nothing."

Chloe shook her head, threw up her hands. "Fine. Whatever." She stomped out of the bathroom.

Walter sighed, looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. _Heel._ He switched off the bathroom light, stepped out into the already darkened bedroom. His eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, thanks to years of nocturnal activities. He crept to the looming shadow that was the bed, crawled under the quilted comforter beside Chloe who lay on her side, back to him. Walter spooned against her and was relieved when she didn't move away. He put his arm around her. "Sorry."

"'Sokay," she snorted, "I'm making too much of it. We just escaped Armageddon, for god's sake. I shouldn't be jumping all over you just because you're jealous of an old friend."

Walter winced; she read him too well sometimes. "Can't help it. Nothing good ever lasts for me. I…get scared."

Chloe rolled over until she faced him; the white of her eye gleamed in the faint ambient light. She placed a warm hand against his whiskery cheek. "I know. I wish I knew how to convince you I'd never leave you. Not ever."

He wished the same.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Love you, too."

They settled against each other, taking comfort in each other's warmth as they drifted into sleep.


	2. Soft As It Began

**A/N:** In this chapter I'm giving them a chance to settle in a bit before things really take off. Next chapter will have a bit more plot to it, I promise.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetic works of Langston Hughes. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Chloe scrutinized herself in the bathroom mirror. She'd gotten a little more gray, a few more worry lines. Not surprising, considering the amount of stress she'd been under lately. She turned from the mirror and regarded the antique claw-foot bathtub. It had been ages since she'd taken an actual bath, and that tub was invitingly deep. Chloe turned on the water, waited until the temperature felt right, then stopped the drain with the rubber plug. She stripped out of the T-shirt she'd slept in and her underwear, then stepped tentatively into the filling tub, hissing slightly at the heat. She settled back with a sigh, smiling as the water rose to engulf her. She turned the faucet off once the water was high enough to submerge everything below her chin. _"Ahhhh…"_

She lay in the bathtub's womblike embrace, letting the hot water ease the tension from her tired muscles. Bliss.

From the bedroom came the sound of compressed bedsprings, the rustle of bedclothes. "Chloe?" Though he kept his voice low, she heard the uneasiness of his tone.

"In here," she called.

Quiet footsteps, then Walter appeared at the bathroom door, bleary eyed and hair mussed from sleep. All he could see of Chloe was the top half of her face surrounded by clouds of steam that rose from the tub. The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly. "Look happy."

"I am," she drawled, eyes closed. She forced her eyelids open a crack and peered at the redhead over the lip of the tub. "This monster's pretty roomy. Wanna give it a try?"

He didn't need any further urging. Walter peeled off his shirt, pushed his boxers down his hips and stepped out of them. Chloe drew up her knees as he joined her in the bath. His light skin grew rosy from the heat in an instant.

"Nice, isn't it?"

He nodded, gazing at the woman across from him with heavy-lidded eyes. He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her raised knees, rested his chin atop them. He trailed his fingers up and down her thighs. Chloe smirked coyly and kept her knees together. She closed her eyes once again, leaned her head back against the curve of the tub, feigning sleepiness when in truth she was becoming increasingly alert. Walter, seeing through her subterfuge, worked his fingers between her thighs and started to pull them apart, only to be thwarted when Chloe slapped them back together, tighter than before. The suddenness of her action caused a splash to strike his face. Walter snorted, wiped the moisture from his nose. Chloe giggled, dropping all pretense of drowsiness. She gazed at him with sultry eyes, her white smile broadening as Walter glared at her in mock annoyance. He tried once again to force her knees apart, putting a little more strength into it, but Chloe clenched them tightly together and giggled at his frustration. Walter's hand suddenly darted out, fingertips tickling her ribs. Chloe squealed, tried to curl her body away from his touch, and Walter finally succeeded in parting her thighs. He quickly gripped her bottom and yanked the woman towards him so her legs bracketed his waist. Water sloshed around the couple, threatening to overflow onto the tiled floor. Walter grinned victoriously. Chloe, her expression mischievous, suddenly clenched her legs around him tight enough to force an _oof_ from the startled redhead.

"Gotcha," she laughed. She felt his arousal pressed against her lower belly, hot as the water around them. She ground against him, eliciting a moan from Walter and bringing a tingle to her most sensitive parts. She raised herself until she felt the head of his manhood against her opening, lowered herself slowly, taking him all in. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as his encircled her waist, clenched her inner muscles around his hardened member and enjoyed the sense of fullness, of completion. Her lips met his in a deep, soulful kiss. Walter's hands slid down to her bottom, pulled her close in a deep, satisfying thrust. She groaned into his mouth, let him guide her movements. Her hands roamed over his back, his shoulders, down his muscled chest. She trailed kisses along his jaw line, the bristles of his five o'clock shadow rough against her soft lips. Ran her tongue down the side of his neck, lightly bit his shoulder. Walter gasped in pleasure/pain and felt his control slipping.

"Chloe, s-stop. I can't--"

"Stop what?" she breathed, "This?" She bit the side of his neck, her teeth leaving red marks on his fair skin. Walter made a noise between a groan and a whimper. He didn't want to come before her, but the things she was doing to him made restraint increasingly difficult. In desperation, he slid his hand between them, found her clitoris with his thumb and started rubbing. Chloe moaned, arched against him. Her nails dug into his back, nearly breaking the skin. Her voice rose as her orgasm washed over her. Her inner walls pulsed around Walter's shaft and he cried out in his own climax.

They held each other, weak and sated, supporting each other upright with their bodies. Chloe sighed, her breath tickling Walter's shoulder. "Good…morning."

Walter's eyes widened. A choked sound rose in his throat and his shoulders trembled; it was the closest he'd ever come to laughing since he'd met Chloe. She giggled in response, face pressed to his shoulder. After a moment, Walter managed to reply, "Yes it is." Chloe laughed even harder at this.

She drew back to look at him, cradled his face in her hands. At that moment Walter was the happiest that she'd ever seen him. "My silly man." She kissed the tip of his nose. He caught the back of her head and pulled her into a deeper, full-lipped kiss. When it ended they remained close, foreheads touching.

"Thought you might still be mad," Walter murmured.

Chloe gently nudged his forehead with her own. "I wasn't that mad, really. Mostly annoyed. With Hank as much as you. I'm sure he'll apologize later," she smirked, "But not like you just did."

"Wasn't an apology!" he denied, voice cross, but still smiling.

"Darn. Then I guess I can't accept it." She started to pull away, but Walter's arms tightened around her, held her close. "You already did," he said, suddenly serious.

Chloe smiled tenderly at him. "And I always will."

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Later, clean and dressed, they descended the stairs to find Elsie seated at the dinette drinking coffee. Arrayed on the table before her was the coffee urn, a basket of cornbread muffins still steaming from the oven, a butter dish, and two extra place settings. Chloe rolled her eyes. "Els! How long have you been up? You should be resting."

"Good morning," her aunt said primly, "And my sleeping habits are none of your business. Now sit yourselves down and eat. No doubt you two have worked up quite an appetite."

Walter gave Chloe a worried look. What was that supposed to mean? She hadn't _heard_ them, had she? He felt his ears burn. Chloe, ignoring his discomfort, settled herself into a chair and poured herself a cup of coffee. Walter took the chair beside her, not meeting Elsie's eyes. He grabbed a corn muffin from the basket and broke it in half, releasing a little puff of steam. The smell made his stomach growl. Letting his hunger distract him from his embarrassment, Walter grabbed a butter knife and carved a generous pat from the stick of butter sitting on its little dish, smeared it over the muffin. He noticed a plastic bottle shaped like a portly bear, picked it up and upended it over his breakfast, all but drowning it in golden honey. Elsie quirked an eyebrow. Then she saw how much sugar he put in his coffee.

"Good lord! How is it you still have all your teeth? Walter, his mouth full of sticky concoction, settled for a shrug in answer. Chloe stifled a laugh.

"Got any plans for today," Elsie asked, "or are you two still recuperating from your trip?"

Chloe glanced at Walter. "Actually, I was thinking I'd stop by Lila's and ask if her offer to work for her was still good."

"I'm sure it is."

"Maybe you could show Walter around?" Chloe wanted them to spend some time together and get acquainted.

Elsie shrugged. "Fine with me. That alright with you, Walt?"

Walter hesitated; he wasn't sure how he felt about being called "Walt." Not even Chloe called him that. "Okay."

Chloe borrowed Elsie's bike for the ride to Jubilation's hospital; her aunt never owned a car, saying such contraptions promoted laziness. That left Walter alone with the older woman. He was at a complete loss as to what to say to her. Elsie intimidated Walter for some reason he couldn't quite fathom. He kept silent (even for him) around her because he was afraid he might say something to displease her, and though he didn't know why, he _really_ didn't want to displease her.

Elsie eyed the discomfited redhead who stood before her with his blue eyes downcast. She found it difficult to warm up to someone who acted like a whipped puppy, especially given his reputation as the notorious Rorschach. As it was, she couldn't for the life of her imagine this man beating anyone up; probably have a heart attack if she cleared her throat.

"Well," she said, "Guess I'll show you around the place. C'mon." She led him out the back door, into her garden. Elsie had kept a vegetable garden since the second World War, when times were tough and every family made ends meet with their "Victory Gardens." She'd pretty much harvested everything before the damned stroke hit; still had some squash and potatoes, as well as the pumpkins leftover in her pumpkin patch.

Walter stared at the empty rows. There were an awful lot of them. "Did all this by yourself?"

"Yeah," Elsie sighed in an it's-not-much voice, "Truth be told, I'm considering giving it up. Just too much hassle anymore. 'Cept the pumpkins, of course. Tradition."

The look on the redhead's face said he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Every year I raise a bunch of pumpkins, then let the neighborhood families pick the ones they want for Halloween," she explained, "Jack-o-lanterns, you know? Kids think its fun."

"Oh." He couldn't imagine why. He followed the older woman past the neatly divided vegetable beds to a wide area of grass, brown from the approaching winter.

"Since I'm on the outskirts, I have a tad more property than most," Elsie said matter-of-factly, without a trace of smugness, "Just twelve acres or so. Been in the family since the founding of Jubilation. Chloe tell you about our town's history?"

"No."

"Jubilation was founded by about a dozen families, most of them former slaves, so palefaces like you are in the minority here." She grinned. "Our family's original name was Birdsong, but what with marriages and the like that name's pretty much gone from the town. Over there's our plot." She pointed with her cane at an area surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Walter was led past the graves of Birdsongs and Mayweathers, Haupers and Lees, and came to a stop before a stone engraved with the name of Byron Whitfield. Chloe's husband. Walter stared at the headstone, made of granite and elegant in its simplicity. Beneath the name and the dates of birth and death was inscribed:

_I loved my friend._

_He went away from me._

_There's nothing more to say._

_The poem ends,_

_Soft as it began,--_

_I loved my friend._

_--Langston Hughes--_

"It was a sunny day when he buried him," Elsie said, voice subdued, "Chloe didn't shed a tear the whole time. The grief was just too much for her. For the longest time I feared she might do something to herself, or worse, just fade away. Then one day she up and went back to New York. Didn't say a word or write a note. Just left. Called me a week later to tell me she was working at that clinic. That's when I knew she was getting better. But I still worried over her."

She turned to look at the silent man beside her, eyes dark and deep. "When she came back to take care of me, I knew something had changed. She was more like her old self. Happy. Told me she was in love." Elsie smiled and gently linked her arm with his. "I'm not worried about her anymore."

Walter turned his head away, overcome by an emotion he didn't understand. Elsie waited patiently while he got a hold of himself; pretended not to notice when he wiped his eyes. She gazed upon the generations that had passed before her, whom she would one day join, and took comfort in knowing it would not end with her. When Walter was once again able to meet her gaze she turned them around and, still arm-in-arm, wordlessly headed back to the house.

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Chloe was stopped several times on her way to Danvers's home-based hospital. The ever-reliable rumor mill had spread the word of her abrupt departure for the city, her narrow escape from the disaster which befell it, and her return with a mysterious new man who, some said, was an escaped convict. It troubled her how accurate the rumors were. She did her best to keep her answers to their numerous questions as vague as possible. It wasn't that she didn't trust the people of the town--she had, after all, known most of them all her life--but rather didn't want them implicated should, heaven forbid, something happen to bring the authorities in an attempt to recapture the escaped Rorschach. Let them get to know Walter, she told herself, before telling all. These were good people who knew her, knew she wasn't some silly crime-groupie who would bring a new threat to their peaceful town. She had to trust that they would not jeopardize Walter's hard-won freedom and her own long-awaited happiness.

Lila Danvers welcomed her back and told her of course the offer was still good and Chloe could start whenever she felt ready. Chloe would need to buy some new scrubs, her old ones having been lost in the wreckage of New York. Other than that, she was eager to start right away. It would be refreshing to work in a place that wasn't steeped in hopelessness, with people she knew and liked. Chloe biked away from Danvers's home in high spirits, ponytail flying behind her as she sped down the thoroughfare towards home. The honk of a car horn brought her to a halt. Henry Dobbins pulled up beside her in his rattling pickup.

"What's up?" she asked.

Henry reached over to the passenger seat, held up a familiar photograph. "You forgot something when you returned my truck."

"Oh, god!" Chloe's hand flew to her mouth. How could she forget the only picture she had of Byron?

"Hey, no harm done," her old friend smiled, "Gives me an excuse to see you again."

"Hank, you don't need an excuse to see me. You know that." Chloe took the framed photo from his outstretched hand, hugged it to her chest. "Thank you."

"Be kinda awkward pedaling around with that. Wanna lift?"

Chloe smiled. "Sure." Henry helped her load Elsie's bike into the bed of the pickup. They rode in silence for a few minutes, then the tall man cleared his throat. "Uh, actually, I do have an ulterior motive in giving you this ride."

"Oh?" Chloe looked at him. She had a pretty good idea what he wanted to talk about.

"I have to tell you, I'm not comfortable keeping silent while you're harboring a known fugitive. Aside from the fact that it's illegal, the guy's got a pretty violent history--" "He won't hurt anyone here," Chloe interrupted, "And he can't be a fugitive if everybody thinks he's dead."

"I checked, Chlo," Henry said quietly, "He's still listed as 'at large.'" Not to mention _extremely dangerous_.

"I wouldn't have brought him here if I didn't trust him." She stared at her childhood friend. "Do you trust _me_?"

"You know the answer to that," he said, hurt that she felt the need to ask. Chloe read it in his expression and felt ashamed.

"Hank, I'm sorry I've put you in this position where you feel like you have to compromise your ethics, but I promise you Rorschach is gone. The man I brought here is just Walter, and he wouldn't harm a soul."

Henry sighed. "I hope you're right. For everybody's sake."

"I am." Her tone left no room for doubt.

They soon pulled into the familiar driveway. _"Whuff!"_

Chloe unfastened her seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem. Need help with the bike?"

"Nah. I got it." She climbed out of the pickup just as Walter stepped through the screen door onto the porch. His icy blue eyes met Henry's stare. There was no overt hostility between the two men, nor could one say they were warming up to each other. Looking at the two of them, Chloe doubted they would ever be friends. It saddened her a little.

Bike unloaded, Chloe walked it to the driver side window to speak to Henry. "If it's not too much trouble, would you mind giving me a ride to Lovettesville tomorrow. I need to buy some new scrubs for when I start work."

"Sure, Chlo. No problem." Tomorrow being Saturday, he didn't have to work at either of his jobs.

"Thanks," she smiled.

"Till tomorrow, then." Henry pulled out of the driveway and headed back into town.

Chloe leaned the bike against the fence, then walked up the porch steps to the waiting redhead, photo tucked under her arm. "Hey," she smiled, "How'd you and Elsie get along?"

"Fine." It wasn't the offhand noncommittal answer someone else would give. Walter seemed more at ease than when she'd left that morning. He put his arms around her waist, held her close against him. Though his expression remained blank, his eyes held an intensity that drew her in. It was those eyes that had first attracted Chloe to him, blue like the ocean, like arctic ice. When she looked into them she felt as if they bored straight into her soul.

Chloe put her free arm around his shoulders, smiling as she returned his gaze. "I'm glad." She planted a kiss on his lips, which deepened as he leaned into it. A good and gentle moment between them, which ended all too soon. They went back into the house.


	3. Scar

**A/N:** At the end of this story is an excerpt from the poem "Tears Fall in My Heart" by Paul Verlaine, probably one of the saddest poems I've ever read, aside from the one in Chapter 2. I don't know what it is about Hurt/Comfort that I find so compelling, but it's featured quite strongly in this chapter. It's not something I plan. I just start writing and let nature take its course.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetic works of Paul Verlaine. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Chloe somehow convinced Walter to accompany her on her trip to the larger neighboring town; he needed more clothes, after all. Besides, Chloe felt the need to have him and Henry get to know each other a little. They might not ever be friends, but they could at least learn to tolerate each other for her sake. The three of them sat together in Henry's pickup, Chloe between the two men. The pervading awkward silence, broken only by the tinny music coming from the radio, made for a much longer trip.

While they were gone, Dr. Lila Danvers paid Elsie a visit, partly to check on the progress of her recovery from her stroke, and partly just to visit. The two women had been friends since both lost their husbands in WWII. Lila had remarried and had her son Craig, while Elsie remained on her own. In retrospect, hers had probably been the wiser course, as Lila's second husband had left much to be desired. Still, she had no regrets when it came to her son, who was a good and loving man.

The two aging women sat on the porch glider together, chatting and sipping mint tea. It was a mild November day, with only a slight chill to the breeze to remind them of the approaching winter. Nixon interrupted their conversation with his warning bark; a white sedan pulled up into the driveway and parked beside Lila's older Ford. A well-dressed fifty-something man got out of the vehicle, somewhat lighter skinned than Chloe, closer to Elsie's skin tone. His close cropped hair and carefully trimmed goatee were salt-and-pepper colored. He bore himself with conscious dignity as he approached the two women, face creased in apprehension.

"Hey, Vern," Elsie waved. Vernon Birdsong, one of the few to still bear the family's ancestral name, was Elsie's third cousin and acting pastor at Jubilation's only church. He was in many ways as respected as the mayor, often consulted for his sage counsel. He took the responsibility very seriously--sometimes _too _seriously, in Elsie's opinion.

"Elsie. Lila," he nodded in greeting, "I hate to impose on you on this fine day, but a rumor has come to my attention which troubles me."

Elsie had expected as much. "What might that be?"

"I heard that your niece brought a survivor back from the city. A white man who matches the description of a known violent criminal shown in recent news broadcasts."

The two women exchanged a look. "Well, Chloe _did_ bring a man back," Elsie confirmed.

Vernon sighed, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. He unfolded it, handed it to his cousin. It was an article clipped from a newspaper, a follow-up story about the capture of Walter Kovacs, a.k.a. Rorschach. It included a mug shot of the vigilante, his face coldly expressionless and mottled with dark bruises.

"Is that the man she brought here, Elsie?"

She scrutinized the grainy picture. "Hmm. Does look kinda like him. But then," she added, "just about every freckled redhead looks pretty much the same to me."

"Is it true his name is also Walter?" Vernon pressed.

"Lotta guys named Walter, too." Elsie handed the paper back.

Her cousin's brow furrowed in concern. "Elsie, if he is the same man as this vigilante the authorities should be informed. He's a dangerous individual and this is a small town with families."

"I trust Chloe's judgment, Vern. She says he's not dangerous, I believe her."

"I understand how much you want her to be happy," he responded sadly, "But think of your neighbors, Elsie. Think of the children. Is your niece's assurances worth the risk to their safety? Is it not at all possible that her loneliness has clouded her judgment?"

Elsie frowned in irritation. "I'm not gullible, Vern. I've spent quite a bit of time with him, _alone_, and I haven't felt the least bit threatened by him. Walt's a good man. He won't harm anyone."

"He's still a wanted fugitive."

"For all anybody knows this Rorschach person died in New York along with three million other people," her voice faltered slightly over the overwhelming number. It would take time for everyone to come to terms with such a loss. "At this point, do you really think they'll bother looking for him?"

"It doesn't matter if they are looking or not," Vernon said, "What matters is who he is and what he's done. You say he won't harm anyone, but what if you're wrong? Should we wait for him to injure or, God forbid, kill someone before doing the right thing and turning him in? Could your conscience handle such a burden? I know mine couldn't."

Elsie tried not to be angry with him; he was only trying to protect what he perceived as "his people." And no, she _didn't_ know for certain that Walter wouldn't hurt anyone. But she trusted Chloe, and she trusted her own instincts. Walter was troubled, without a doubt; had experienced a lot of hurt in his life. But she felt no danger from him. "Look," she reasoned, "if it makes you feel a little better, I'll make sure he doesn't go anywhere on his own. One of us will stay with him at all times until you feel he can be trusted. Would that be alright?"

Vernon looked doubtful.

"Just give it a month, Vern," Elsie asked, "Give him time to get to know the town and its people. Give _them _time to get to know _him_."

The pastor nodded, though with obvious reluctance. "One month."

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Walter had fretted over going out in public, risking the chance that someone might recognize him. But their arrival at Lovettesville soon alleviated his fears somewhat; all anyone talked about was the worldwide attack seemingly perpetrated by the infamous Dr. Manhattan. News of an escaped vigilante paled in comparison to fifteen million murdered souls.

After agreeing to meet Henry later for their ride home, Chloe led Walter into Lovettesville's department store; larger than Jubilation's general store, with more variety in its stock. Walter was soon introduced to the mind-numbing tedium of clothes shopping as Chloe dragged him (sometimes bodily) from rack to rack. She held up shirts and trousers in front of him with a critical frown. Those that passed first muster joined the growing pile in the dismayed redhead's arms. In his entire life Walter never owned more than three shirts and two pairs of pants at a time, not including his Rorschach clothes. He honestly didn't see the point in all this fuss, but some primal instinct for self preservation told him to keep his own counsel on the subject and let Chloe take charge.

"That's enough for now, I think," she decided, much to his relief. "Why don't you go try them on?"

Walter blinked. "Why?" He knew for a fact the sizes were correct.

"I wanna see how you look in them," she said as she steered him in the direction of the fitting rooms and gave him a light shove. Thus the horrors of shopping with one's girlfriend reached a new level for him. It was almost enough to make him wish for the simpler life of bashing in muggers' skulls.

Chloe somehow managed to find the time to select items of clothing for herself, as well as several sets of scrubs for work. Eventually, she was satisfied with their selections and herded the redhead to the checkout line. The cashier, a twenty-something girl with badly dyed blonde hair frizzed to within an inch of its life, eyed the couple strangely as she rang them up. Walter tensed, but the girl didn't seem to be looking at him with any particular alarm. Rather, she eyed him and Chloe together and Walter detected a certain…disapproval…to her expression. He wasn't sure why this should be; Chloe was her usual pleasant self and Walter hadn't said a word to the girl.

The cashier read off their total. Chloe handed over her credit card, which the faux blonde eyed skeptically before she swiped it through the machine. She had Chloe sign the printed slip, then passed her back the card along with her receipt. "Have a nice day, ma'am," the girl said with just a tad too much emphasis on the ma'am.

Walter picked up one of the overflowing shopping bags, Chloe the other. As they walked away she casually linked arms with him and Walter glanced over his shoulder in time to glimpse a scornful look on the girl's face, hastily suppressed. Walter frowned.

"Something wrong?" Chloe asked.

"Girl acted strange."

The woman smiled without humor. "Some people aren't comfortable with interracial couples."

Walter blinked in surprise; he hadn't really thought of their relationship in that way. He wasn't naïve; as Rorschach he had come across all too many instances of violence motivated by prejudices. But to him Chloe was just…Chloe. The darkness to her skin was just another part of who she was, like her hazel eyes and long hair. He never really thought of her in terms of race.

"Does it bother you?" he asked.

Chloe looked at him. "Which? The girl's reaction, or my being in love with a white man?"

"Both."

She smiled. "Well, there's nothing I can do about how other people behave, but as for me," she gently bumped his shoulder with hers, "I really don't care what color you are. I love _you_."

Walter smiled.

They found Henry waiting for them in the parking lot. The shopping bags went into the pickup's bed and Walter and Chloe climbed into the cab. The truck's radio was on, broadcasting news on the recovery work in New York. The disembodied voice expounded on the generosity of multi-billionaire Adrian Veidt rendered in the form of temporary shelters, food, clothing, and medical aide to the thousands who suddenly found themselves homeless in the wake of the attack. The entrepreneur and former masked hero also pledged to help in the rebuilding of the great city using his numerous construction companies and paid for out of his own well endowed pockets.

Henry nodded. "Thank god there's a man like that in the world."

Chloe stared at the redhead beside her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen such rage burning in his eyes. Walter's tightly clenched fists trembled in his lap; the muscles in his jaw bunched and writhed.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

Walter hissed between his teeth, "Turn it off."

She quickly turned the knob. _Click._ The voice cut out mid-sentence. Walter glared out the window, still fuming. Henry threw him a puzzled glance. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Walter muttered.

Chloe rested a hand over his balled fist, felt the emotion radiate from him like a vibration in the air. "What about that broadcast made you so angry?"

Walter stared down at her hand on his and his muted expression took a despondent cast. "Won't believe me," he mumbled.

Chloe gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Try me."

He pursed his lips and raised his eyes to meet hers. "Wasn't Dr. Manhattan who attacked," he said quietly, "Was only made to look like him."

The other two frowned at his words. "Then who was it?" Henry asked.

Walter braced himself. "Veidt."

"_What!"_ Henry's gaze jerked towards him so abruptly he nearly lost control of the truck. He quickly pulled onto the shoulder, ignoring the brays of passing car horns, and shifted in his seat to face the smaller man. "The hell are you saying? _Adrian Veidt? _You think Veidt somehow killed fifteen million people to frame Dr. Manhattan?"

"Don't think," Walter responded, "_Know._ Was there when he did it. Used Manhattan's energy research to create bombs. Set them off before…before I could stop him." There was pain in his expression as he said this; sorrow and remorse at what he'd failed to prevent.

Chloe's hand went to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock at the enormity of his words. "Oh my god. Why?"

"To prevent nuclear war. Unite world powers against common enemy." And it had worked, damn it all. The United States and Soviet Union, longtime enemies racing towards mutual destruction, were now fast friends in the wake of their shared tragedy. The man once known as Ozymandias had succeeded in saving the world, but at a terrible cost.

"Bullshit," Henry spat. He scowled in growing rage at Walter who unflinchingly stared back.

Chloe spoke up. "I believe him."

"You can't be serious!" Her childhood friend stared at her, aghast. "Haven't you heard any of the reports on this guy?" he pointed at the redhead, "This guy's a borderline psychopath! He's fixated on this weird conspiracy theory centered around the Comedian's death. It's nothing but a paranoid delusion!"

"No, Hank," Chloe responded, voice subdued, "He's telling the truth. I know it."

It was too much, her siding with that lunatic. "Wake up, Chloe! Take those goddamned rose-colored glasses off your face and _look_ at what you're living with! The man's insane! He's dangerous and you've put yourself and Elsie and everyone in Jubilation at risk in bringing him here."

Walter abruptly yanked on the door handle and got out of the truck. He stalked away from them, through the dead grass of the empty countryside, ignoring Chloe's shouts.

Chloe glowered at her friend in reproach, then jumped out of the vehicle and hurried after Walter's retreating figure. Henry watched in mounting frustration as she caught up with the redhead, stood before him with her hands on his shoulders to halt his angry march; heard her voice, but couldn't make out the words. Whatever she said seemed to calm Walter down somewhat. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders and his own voice rasped in reply. Henry's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He hated this. Hated that his oldest friend had fallen for the worst possible person. Hated that his friendship with her prevented him from doing the right thing and turning the man in to the proper authorities. Hated especially that tiny voice of doubt in the back of his mind that said maybe, just _maybe_, what that crazy bastard said was true. That fifteen million people died horribly in an act of terrorism perpetrated by the world's greatest philanthropist just so he could dupe the planet into peace. Because if it _was_ true, then someday the world would find out, and the betrayal from a man everyone believed a saint would prove more devastating than any nuclear war could have been.

Walter and Chloe returned to the truck, holding hands. Chloe gave Henry a look that said he'd better keep his mouth shut. They rode the rest of the way in uncomfortable silence, pulled up in front of Elsie's house. Chloe and Walter got out, retrieved their bags from the truck bed, then Henry drove off without a word of farewell.

Elsie, alone on the porch now since Lila and Vern had left earlier, saw the expressions on the approaching couple's faces and the words of greeting died in her throat. She followed them inside, watched as they mounted the steps to deposit their newly purchased clothes in the bedroom. The bedroom door all but slammed shut behind them. Elsie sighed. Looked like their transition into their new life was not going to be a smooth one after all.

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Chloe sat heavily on the bed. Beside her, Walter sat with his forearms resting on his knees, his head lowered, staring at his shoes. She couldn't read the expression on his face, but knew it did not bode well for his state of mind. Chloe placed her hand on his back between his shoulder blades, moved it in slow, gentle circles. Walter gave no reaction to her touch, neither leaned into it nor pulled away. This troubled Chloe even more. She didn't know what to do for him.

"Thirty-five minutes."

His quiet words startled her. "What?"

Walter slowly lifted his head, turned his fathomless eyes on her. "Veidt set the bombs off thirty-five minutes before we got to him. Me and Nite Owl. Fifteen million people died because I didn't figure it out soon enough. Because I was distracted with worrying about you." Those last words were uttered without blame or rancor for the woman beside him. They were a statement of fact; a confession of his weakness. "I couldn't save them."

And now she understood what she saw in his eyes. The same emotion he must have seen in hers after a brutally beaten pregnant girl he'd brought to her clinic had miscarried and died, despite all their efforts to save her. It was the look of utter despair. The look of someone who knew nothing he would ever say or do from that point on would atone for his failure, and no judgment would ever be as harsh as the self-recrimination in his own heart.

Chloe knew nothing she could say would help to ease his burden, so she didn't try. She put her arms around him, let him rest his head against her shoulder, let him know through her silent actions that he was not alone.

Walter trembled. He didn't want to cry. He'd already shed so many tears, unloaded so many emotional burdens upon her. He didn't want her to have to endure any more for him. Not for him.

Chloe closed her eyes. "I can feel you pulling away from me," she whispered, throat tightening in sorrow. "Don't do it. Don't hide yourself away."

The pain behind her words cut him. He felt the wall he'd built around that deep-seated guilt start to crumble and tried to fight it, tried to push her away, but she held on too tightly. A strange panic bloomed in him. He struggled in the woman's grasp like a trapped animal; like a wounded thing too fearful of the healer's touch to let his hurt be cleansed. His fingers dug into her upper arms hard enough to leave painful bruises as he tried to break free, yet Chloe made not a sound of protest. She knew he didn't mean to hurt her.

"Stop it, Walter. I'm not letting you go."

A sound emerged from his throat, low and painful. "Don't…I can't…"

"I forgive you, baby," she whispered the words unplanned.

"_Shut up!"_ He wailed and thrashed in her implacable grip, all hope of control lost under the assault of her compassion. Her terrible words lashed him again and again.

_I forgive you…I forgive you…_

His body suddenly went limp in her arms. He sobbed uncontrollably, his emotional abscess finally lanced and spilling forth its accumulated poisons. Chloe rocked the weeping man in her arms as if he were a child frightened in the night by some horrible dream. His pain brought tears to her own eyes which rolled down her cheeks to patter against his shoulder. Walter cried long and hard, until sheer exhaustion overtook him. Chloe gently helped him to lie down on the bed and got under the covers with him. He continued to weep even as he drifted off. The infection ran deep and it would leave a painful scar. But scar tissue, though ugly, was stronger than unmarred flesh. It made wounds whole again and better able to withstand future perils, whereas wounds left untreated only festered and spread their weakness until those who bore them ultimately succumbed. As a healer, Chloe knew such things. Knew that sometimes the pain had to get much worse before it could get better.

"I forgive you," she whispered to the slumbering man, knowing the words hurt him, knowing they must be said.

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_Tears without reason _

_in the disheartened heart._

_What? no trace of reason?_

_This grief's without reason._

_It's far the worst pain _

_to never know why _

_without love or distain _

_my heart has such pain!_


	4. Tell Tales

**A/N:** This chappie gets a little fluffy towards the end, I feel. But I like it, and I felt Walter deserved a little reprieve from his turmoil.

The story Elsie tells is one I read years ago and has left a big impression on me. It's not written verbatim, obviously, but the context of the story is unchanged. I've been looking for the opportunity to share it and felt in this case it might actually work. So, here it is.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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"_Shut up!"_

The shout alarmed the older woman who hovered by the stairs. Then came the distinctive sounds of gut-wrenching sobs, muffled behind the closed bedroom door. It broke Elsie's heart to hear them, but she remained downstairs; it was not her place to comfort that sad, damaged man. Her poor niece; to have fallen in love with someone so hurt must have been difficult. But if there was anything Chloe knew from personal experience, it was pain.

Eventually the sounds quieted. Elsie walked away from the stairs, headed to the kitchen. The end of her cane thumped lightly against the floor, hardly needed save to maintain her still-shaky balance. She brewed a fresh pot of mint tea and set it on the breakfast nook's table. Minutes later Chloe wandered in. She looked tired, her long hair disheveled, eyes puffy and red. She dropped herself into the breakfast nook bench. Elsie poured her a mug of tea.

"He fall asleep?"

Chloe nodded. She dropped a sugar lump into the full mug--_splish_--and lifted it to her mouth, blew away the steam, then took a tentative sip. The tea was strong; Elsie picked and dried the leaves from a patch that grew wild on her property. Chloe forever associated the smell of mint with warmth and contentment. Even now, downhearted as she was, the taste brought a tiny smile to her lips.

"What happened?" Elsie asked in a voice little more than a whisper.

Chloe carefully set the mug down on the table, then told her aunt what she had learned.

Elsie covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "Sweet Jesus." She rarely spoke that way, but how else could she react upon finding out a saint was in fact a mass murderer? "Do you believe him?"

"I don't have the whole story, but…yeah." Chloe rubbed her reddened eyes. "Hank doesn't, though. Made damn sure we both knew it. I can't remember the last time I'd seen him so angry," she snorted ruefully, "As if things weren't tense enough between him and Walter. I really don't know what to do about them."

"Not much you _can_ do," Elsie said, grateful for the change to a more mundane subject, "They're rivals for your affections. Doesn't matter that you've already made your choice. In a way, it ain't even _about_ you. It's about how they're too much alike in all the wrong ways. Like a coupla alpha dogs baring their teeth."

Chloe smirked. "Sons of bitches."

"Exactly," Elsie chuckled, "We're not so far from animals as we'd like to think. Only difference is we're smart enough to try and _rationalize_ our behavior, make it all more complicated than it really is." She picked up her nearly empty cup, swirled the contents, watched the flecks of tea dance around the bottom of the cup. "Truth is, it all boils down to Us-and-Them. Hank and most of the others here perceive you as Us, while Walter is seen as Them." A very dangerous Them.

Chloe frowned. "What others?"

Her aunt winced. Damn, she'd hoped to put off telling her. "Had a visit from Vern earlier today."

Chloe tensed; she didn't particularly like her distant relative. To her mind, the town's pastor was entirely too nosy. "And?"

"And I talked him into a sort of trial period." Elsie attempted a casual shrug.

"'Trial period.' What, Walter doesn't kill anybody and they won't call the cops?" The younger woman's voice rose perceptibly with her resentment.

"That's about the size of it."

Chloe jumped out of her seat with a growl, started pacing the floor. How dare that meddlesome old bible-thumper come here and give them an ultimatum! Hadn't Walter been through enough without being persecuted in his new home by a bunch of paranoid--

"Chloe," her aunt interrupted her silent tirade, "Sit down, hon. You're wearing a rut in my floor."

Chloe halted her angry pacing, but remained standing. She sighed, ran a hand through her graying curls. "Maybe we made a mistake coming here," she fretted, "Maybe we should've gone somewhere nobody knows either of us; made a fresh start."

"Maybe it's too soon to be thinking that way," Elsie said firmly. "It's only been a few days, baby. You gotta give it time."

"Time, right," Chloe muttered, "Too much to ask for things to work right away. Gotta give it time." She hated this; hated knowing what she knew; hated the petulance she heard in her own voice. Her life lately had been an emotional rollercoaster, with far too many plummets and not nearly enough upswings. She was tired.

"Tomorrow will be better," she tried to convince herself, "Tomorrow I start working at Lila's. Get to feel useful again. It'll get better."

"That's right," Elsie agreed.

They very nearly believed it.

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He saw them all. He'd known their names, though never spoke them. Bernard the newsvendor and Bernard the comic book reading teenager, Joey the cabdriver and her girlfriend, Detective Fine and his partner, Dr. Malcolm Long the prison shrink and his wife. They were all together. Joey was fighting with her girlfriend, started getting physical. Dr. Long rushed in to break them up, his protesting wife trailing behind. Then the two detectives pulled up in their car and jumped out, boy scouts to the end. And all the while Bernard the newsvendor bemoaned the state of things while Young Bernard tuned him out so he could finish his comic. It was all rather mundane, really; just another turbulent New York night.

Then the clock struck midnight.

A flash of light, brighter than a thousand lightning bolts, turning night into harsh day. The fighting lesbian couple and their would-be rescuers froze in a wide-eyed tableau, while behind them the spray-painted silhouettes of the embracing couple stood as if to offer meager comfort to each other. The energy bomb's shockwave raced towards them like a wall of crackling electricity. Everything it touched vaporized instantly. Terror brought their basic instincts to bear. Joey grabbed her fallen girlfriend in a rough embrace. Dr. Long turned to his wife. The two detectives moved as if to block the oncoming doom with their tangible righteousness. But the most heartbreaking sight was of Young Bernard rushing to the one person he trusted in all this chaos, and old Bernard grabbing the child, turning to block the horrific sight from the child's eyes with his broad figure. He hugged the frightened boy to his chest, perhaps whispered a comforting lie; _It'll be okay._ Then the light struck and all those lives--those unique, imperfect, beautiful lives--ended.

Walter opened his eyes. It was dark in the room; night had fallen. His eyes adjusted quickly and he was able to make out the slumbering form of Chloe beside him. He didn't want to wake her. Didn't want to go back to sleep. He crawled out of the bed slowly so as not to disturb the sleeping woman, crept silently to the door. There was some meager light outside the bedroom. He followed it to its source, down the steps, into the kitchen, to discover Elsie sitting at the breakfast nook. She looked up at his entrance, set down a steaming mug.

"Can't sleep?"

Walter shook his head.

"Me neither. Once I wake up, there's no going back," the old woman sighed, "Used to be I could sleep the whole night through without a problem. Now I gotta get up twice a night to pee." She turned her serious brown eyes to the slightly uncomfortable redhead. "Old age ain't for sissies."

"No, ma'am."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Enough of that ma'am crap, Walt. Call me Elsie. Want some cocoa?"

He nodded. Elsie stood, grabbed her cane. She went to the cupboard for a mug, dipped a ladle into a pan on the stove and poured steaming brown liquid into the cup. Walter was surprised; he'd expected the powdered stuff with hot water poured over it, not the real thing. He reached to take the mug from her.

"Careful, it's hot," Elsie admonished in her mother hen voice. Walter got a strange feeling whenever she used that voice on him. Sort of a warm tickle in his stomach, like butterflies only not so unpleasant. He grasped the mug with care and walked over to the breakfast nook, taking the opposite bench. Elsie resumed her seat, picked up her mug. She watched the redhead blow on the scalding liquid before taking a tentative sip. Telltale movements at the corners of his mouth and eyes told her he liked what he tasted. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride at this.

"Tell you what," she said after taking a sip of her own cocoa, "There's some odds and ends that need doing around the house, especially since I'm still enfeebled." She glowered at her cane. "I hope you won't think I'm taking advantage, but would you mind taking care of these things for me? It's not much, just clearing up a few things in the yard, cleaning out the gutters, that sorta thing."

Walter regarded the older woman with his strangely expressive eyes. "Alright."

"Great! You can start with rearranging the furniture."

He blinked.

Elsie smirked. "Kidding." She almost got a smile out of him.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, sipping their cocoa and peering out at the autumn night. The muted chirps of the year's remaining crickets reached their ears. Walter found the noise curiously soothing; coming from New York, he typically associated nighttime noises with police sirens and barking dogs. The full moon peered through the kitchen window, bathing the naked trees with its eerie light.

Elsie smiled. "You know, when Chloe was little and couldn't sleep, I'd tell her a story. Didn't put her to sleep, but it made the insomnia bearable. Your parents ever do that for you?"

Walter shook his head, eyes suddenly fixated on the contents of his mug. His body language told her more about his childhood than words could have. Elsie felt sad for the little boy he used to be; every child should be mothered once in a while.

"Chloe's favorite was a story I read, oh, years ago in a collection of folktales from around the world. It's an African tale. Would you like to hear it?"

Again that strange warm flutter. Walter cautiously lifted his gaze to the aging woman across from him. Her face was open and sincere, without a trace of mockery. Tentatively, he nodded.

"Alright. Here goes." She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat; storytelling was serious business, after all. "This tale happened long, long ago, when the world was new and everything that happened was happening for the first time. The people were joyous as they discovered all the wonders of their home, save for one. Among them was a little girl whose face was long with constant sorrow, for she was the first orphan. The people felt uncomfortable with her sadness, so they asked her to leave. They did not mean to be cruel in this. They simply didn't know what to do for her. So the Orphan left the villages of the people and wandered the world alone with her sorrow. Over time the sadness grew in her, making her steps heavy and her body swell, for her sadness had nowhere to go. But the Orphan, unknown to her, was being watched over.

"In that ancient time the moon did not look as she does today, but was a smooth, unblemished white. From her home in the sky she watched the people of the world below and marveled at their cleverness. Then one night, as she spread her white gown about her, she looked down and saw the Orphan. The little girl had been wandering for many days, her sorrow growing within her until she was so bloated she could no longer walk, only drag herself across the ground. She made not a sound as she did this, save for a weary sigh. The moon felt sorry for the Orphan and shone down brighter than before to let the child know she was not alone. But the Orphan could not raise her head to see, so heavy was her burden.

"The next night the moon swooped down, gathered the swollen girl in her shimmering arms, and carried her back into the sky. Cradling her like an infant, the moon showed her the wonders of the heavens, the glimmering stars, the dazzling Milky Way. She showed her the beauty that was the world as seen from above, like a magnificent tapestry. But the Orphan barely looked at any of it; only sighed and grew still larger with her sadness.

"The moon hugged the Orphan to her and whispered in her gentle voice, 'Let your sorrow flow from you.'

"The Orphan looked at her, not understanding.

"'Let your sorrow flow from you.'

"And then the Orphan felt a burning in her throat, a stinging in her eyes. Felt something rise within her which she fought to hold down, for she was afraid. But the moon rocked her and sang to her, and finally the first tears sprang from the girl's eyes, hot and bitter. Once they began they didn't stop. They poured from the Orphan's eyes in a torrent. The moon, realizing their saltiness would ruin the soil below, spread her magnificent white gown to catch the falling tears. And so the Orphan wept for the first time and her body slowly shrank, and when her tears finally dried they left dark blotches on the moon's once pristine gown, which she displays proudly to this day. When the Orphan had no more tears to shed and her body had shrunk back to normal, the moon brought her back to earth, to the village she had left behind. With her sorrow gone, the Orphan felt a lightness she had never before experienced and she smiled, and the people looked at this smiling girl and saw that she was beautiful. From that day on the girl was loved by all, and the gods, in their wisdom, bestowed her gift of tears upon all the people so that they too might release their sorrows.

"And that is why we cry," Elsie ended simply.

Walter stared at her, his cooling mug forgotten in front of him. Though his expression remained blank, he was awhirl with unfamiliar emotions. He did not have the words for these new feelings; his childhood was such that he'd never been comforted by his mother, never snuggled in her arms while she read to him or sang him a lullaby. The absence of those experiences had gone unnoticed for all these years, because he simply never knew such things existed until this moment. Now he felt it keenly, this need for simple affection. For someone to hold his hand and murmur a comforting lie; _It'll be okay._ In the face of Elsie's maternal instincts, he regressed a little into the neglected child he once was.

"I liked that story," he said meekly.

Elsie smiled warmly. The sight brought a tightness to Walter's chest.

"Could you…" he hesitated, uncertain, "tell me another?"

The older woman did not seem to find his request at all strange. "I'd love to." And so they settled back in their seats, Walter's eyes half open and his body relaxed, while Elsie's sonorous voice washed over him, summoning visions of faraway places.


	5. Faith in You

**Faith (n) **belief or trust: belief in, devotion to, or trust in somebody or something, especially without logical proof

Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2004 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Chloe woke to find herself alone in the bed; the sheets didn't even carry any residual heat from where Walter had been. He must've been up for some time. Chloe got out of bed, washed up, then dressed in her new scrubs. Unlike her old ones, which were plain light blue, these scrubs were patterned in multicolored spirals and jagged lines. Still blue, of course; it _was_ her favorite color. Chloe descended the stairs, tying her hair back in a ponytail as she did so. She found Elsie in the kitchen pulling a pan of granola out of the oven.

"Mornin'," her aunt beamed, setting the hot tray on the counter. "Just in time. Hungry?"

Chloe shook her head. The smell of the granola mingled with brewed coffee brought a faint queasiness to the younger woman. "Nerves."

"Over what? It's not as if you've never done this before." Elsie scrutinized her niece. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. Like I said, it's just nerves." Chloe looked around. "Where's Walter?"

"Outside. Wanted to get an early start."

"On what?"

"Just tidying up the yard a bit. You really should eat something," Elsie said, unwilling to let it go. Just because she was right didn't make her mothering any less irritating.

Chloe sighed. "I'll just have some toast." She was pretty sure she could handle that. She headed for the breadbox, but her aunt beat her to it. Heaven forbid Elsie should let anyone do for themselves in her house. Smiling at the older woman's fussiness, Chloe headed out the back door into the garden. She found Walter raking leaves, the morning light dappled through the overhanging trees onto his hunched form. He noticed his audience and straightened.

"Good morning," Chloe smiled. She didn't ask if he was feeling better; she could see that some of the strain had left his eyes. She walked over to him, planted a light kiss on his lips. "Elsie's finally cracking the whip on you, I see."

Walter shrugged. "Like to keep busy."

"Yeah." She noticed him giving her the once over. "Like them?" She indicated her scrubs.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Like you in them."

Elsie chose that moment to stick her head out the door. "You two get in here and eat your breakfast!"

Chloe rolled her eyes. "Yes, mother."

"What?" the older woman called.

"I said we're coming!"

Walter leaned the rake against the fence and started for the house. Chloe walked beside him; she took his hand, fingers interlaced. He looked at her, gave her hand a squeeze.

"You gonna be okay here while I'm gone?" she couldn't help asking.

"I'll be fine," he reassured her, "Got lots to do."

They went inside. Chloe managed a slice of toast, but refused any coffee; the smell alone was almost too much for her anxious stomach to handle. Her meager breakfast done, she borrowed her aunt's bike once again and headed off for Jubilation's hospital.

Lila Danvers greeted her at the door. "Morning, Chloe. Ready to start?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Chloe replied, leaning the bike against one of the trees fronting the large house that was both the town's hospital and Lila's home. She followed the silver-haired doctor inside.

"Things aren't too busy right now," Lila said, "Mostly checkups, flu shots, the occasional mishap. Nothing we can't handle ourselves. I'm afraid it might be a little dull compared to that clinic you worked at back in the city."

Chloe smiled. "Dull would be a nice change."

The first patient arrived minutes later; a simple head cold. For the rest of the day the flow of walk-ins and appointments remained fairly steady. More than a few seemed to have shown up mainly to get an eyeful of the new nurse and possibly hit her up for gossip; every small town's major pastime. It both amused and troubled Chloe how much people already knew or thought they knew about her and Walter. Especially Walter. Whenever he came up in the conversations, which he inevitably did, people's behavior ranged from morbid fascination to borderline terror. Was it true he escaped from prison? Was it true he killed thirty people with his bare hands? Was it true that he was Rorschach the masked vigilante? So far, Chloe managed to avoid giving direct answers by throwing back questions of her own: "You know me. Do you really think I'd live with a murderer? Do you really think I'd leave Elsie alone with him if I thought he was dangerous?" The conversation would end shortly thereafter, but the doubt remained in their eyes. It left a nagging worry in Chloe.

The last patient they worked on was also the most severe. Myron Amos, a lifelong resident of Jubilation, had been out chopping firewood for the upcoming winter when the axe slipped and hit him in the leg. His wife had driven him to the hospital while he'd lain in the backseat trying not to pass out from the sight of his own blood. It was only a glancing blow, thankfully, but still serious enough to require stitches.

"Relax, Myron," Chloe patted his shoulder reassuringly, "I'm an old pro at this." She readied the suture kit. As she was about to start, Myron suddenly grabbed her upper arm. "Wait."

Chloe flinched as his strong fingers dug into the bruises of her arm, sending a flash of pain through the abused flesh.

"Just gimme a sec," Myron uttered nervously, not noticing the nurse's discomfort. He leaned back in the exam bed, eyes squeezed shut, and took several deep breaths. He visibly willed his body into relaxing, even as his hands now clutched the sides of the bed in a death grip. "Okay," he sighed.

Chloe stitched his wound. Afterwards Lila gave Myron a tetanus shot and sent him and his wife home. Once they heard the car's engine start, Lila turned to her new nurse with a serious expression.

"Wanna tell me what that was about?"

"What?" Chloe frowned, puzzled by this change in the doctor's mood.

Lila took Chloe's wrist in a gentle but firm grip, used her other hand to push up the sleeve of the younger woman's scrubs top. Her gray eyes turned flinty when she saw the prune-colored bruises banding Chloe's skin in the shape of grasping fingers. "He do that?" She didn't need to specify who _he_ was.

"It's not what you think," Chloe said quickly, then instantly regretted it. How many times had she heard those words spoken by women with blackened eyes and split lips?

"Chloe…" Lila's tone said _I thought you were smarter than that._

"It really is nothing, Lila." Chloe pulled her sleeve back down, covering the inconvenient marks. Why now, of all times, when things were still so shaky for him? "C'mon," she reasoned, "Am I in any way behaving like a victim of abuse?"

"Your relationship's still new," the doctor rebutted, "Early enough for you to convince yourself it was a one-time thing. We both know where that leads."

Chloe sighed, "Yes, and it's not like that at all. I promise."

The older woman appeared unconvinced.

"Please don't mention this to anyone," Chloe asked, hating the way she sounded, "People are having a hard enough time accepting Walter."

Lila debated with herself; the conflict showed on her face. "If it happens again, I won't keep silent."

"It won't happen again," Chloe said firmly.

_Not the best way to end my first day_, she thought ruefully as she biked home. She wished there was some way to convince Lila that Walter wasn't mistreating her, but those damned bruises said more than any reassurances she could voice. She could only hope at this point that Lila kept it to herself as she'd promised. Chloe dreaded what might happen if this got out.

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Walter spent much of the day outdoors, raking and bagging leaves, picking up fallen tree branches, cleaning out the rain gutters on the house, and collecting whatever vegetables remained in Elsie's garden. He enjoyed the work; it made him feel useful and also cleared his mind of lingering bad memories. It was almost like meditation for him. He was so absorbed in his activities that Elsie had to shout several times to get his attention when it was time for lunch. He ate his food quickly and returned outside. By the time Chloe returned in the late afternoon he had cleared all the autumn debris from the huge yard and gotten a sunburn in the process. He straightened as the familiar biking figure pedaled up the driveway. The day had been mild enough, and his labors intensive enough, that Walter had removed his outer shirt, leaving only a sleeveless wife-beater on. His shoulders, arms, and the back of his neck were red from the sun. Sweat stains left dark triangles at his chest and back, and oblongs under his arms. His hands were blistered due to an inability to locate a pair of work gloves that fit him, and he had a minor crick in his lower back. He felt a real sense of accomplishment.

Chloe laughed as she brought the bike to a halt. "Looks like somebody's had a busy day." She leaned the bike against the fence and sauntered over to him. She frowned over his sunburns, touched his reddened shoulder with gentle fingers. "Need to get you some sunblock," she muttered, "Your skin's way too fair for outdoor work."

A strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail and hung down the side of her face. Walter brushed it behind her ear, his fingertips lingered against her cheek. Chloe's eyes slid away from his reddened shoulder to meet his blue gaze. The tiredness she had felt from her eventful first day at work faded away, replaced by a far more pleasant sensation. A coy grin spread across her face as she backed away from the intently staring redhead. Walter took a step after her, his hand out to touch her again, and Chloe broke into a run. She giggled as she heard rapid footfalls behind her, ran up the porch steps and through the door, letting the screen door slam behind her. She heard it slam again as she was mounting the steps two at a time to reach the second floor. Heard as well her aunt's protesting shout at their mistreatment of her entryway over the rapid thump-thump-thump of Walter's shoes on the stairs. He was right behind her; one misstep and he'd have her in his clutches. Chloe, grinning with excitement, didn't dare look behind her lest she trip over her own feet and lose her tenuous lead. She rounded the corner to the bedroom, dashed laughing through the door. She tried to slam it closed, but Walter's shoulder rammed against it. For several seconds the two fought a reverse tug-o-war, each throwing their weight upon the bedroom door. Chloe laughed breathlessly as Walter slowly forced the door to open wider, centimeter by centimeter. Without warning, Chloe leaped back and the redhead cannoned through, almost falling onto his face from the unexpected move. Walter quickly regained his balance and slammed the door closed behind him as Chloe dashed to the opposite side of the bed, but instead of giving chase the redhead stood and stared intently at her. Chloe's ponytail had loosened in her flight, letting loose strands of hair frame a face split in a broad grin. Her dark skin was flushed with exertion, her eyes aglow. Her chest heaved as she panted from her headlong run. She was radiant.

Realizing he no longer wished to chase her, Chloe straightened from her anticipatory crouch. She felt the intensity of his ice blue eyes burn through her, making her heart pound more rapidly than it had from her run. It made her feel lightheaded and yet keenly aware of all the myriad details that made up Walter; the pattern of freckles across his nose, the fine red hairs of his forearms, the tang of his sweat, the faint rasp of his labored breathing. The wife-beater emphasized his slender yet well-muscled frame. Chloe felt drunk from the sensations of him.

"You look really good in that shirt," her words slurred. Was she swaying on her feet?

She was unaware of the intervening seconds between the time they looked at each other across the room and the moment they were in each other's arms. Their mouths crashed against each other, tongues and lips tangled. They tumbled onto the bed, a chaotic mass of limbs, rolling and groaning, until Chloe found herself pinned under Walter. His strong hands grabbed the waistband of her scrubs pants and yanked them down, taking her underwear along with them. When they were low enough on her legs Chloe kicked them off along with her shoes, letting them drop to the floor, while Walter unfastened his jeans and pulled them down around his knees. The front of his boxers were tented from his arousal. Chloe sat up, hooked her fingers into the waistband, and eased them down. Walter's stiffened member stood out from the surrounding ginger curls like an exclamation point. Chloe wrapped her hand around his erection, slid it up and down its length, earning a groan in response. She leaned closer to take him into her mouth.

Walter quickly grabbed her shoulders. "No."

Chloe looked up at him in surprise. There was a look in his eyes she hadn't seen in some time; one that had surfaced early in their relationship whenever they touched. Walter hadn't been comfortable with physical affection. Given his experiences as a boy, who could blame him? But he had gotten past the feelings of shame, until now.

"Not like that," he said quietly. Walter couldn't bring himself to say _That is what whores do._ He didn't want to see Chloe doing what whores did, even out of love.

Chloe nodded in understanding, smiling her small sympathetic smile. She let him push her onto her back and lower his weight onto her. Her legs went around his waist, their bodies fitting together as if made for each other. He slid into her effortlessly, started moving in slow, sharp thrusts. Chloe moaned. Her hands wadded the fabric of his sweat stained wife-beater as her hips rose to meet him thrust for thrust. Walter's own hands crept under her scrubs top. He lifted her just enough to reach the clasp of her bra and unfasten it, then lowered her back onto the mattress. Supporting his weight with his right hand, he slid his left hand over the hill of her belly, under her loosened bra to cup her breast. His thumb circled her hardened nipple. Chloe kissed her way up the side of his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat, until she reached his ear. She sucked on his earlobe, bit down lightly and smiled when she heard him gasp. They rolled on the bed until Chloe was on top. She straightened so their bodies resembled an inverted T, her movements slightly faster than his. Her hands went under his shirt and roamed over his muscled chest, nails rasping over the not-too-thick patch of hair. Walter's own hands kneaded her breasts from beneath her scrubs, his rough callouses stimulating her peaked nipples. Small sounds escaped Chloe's mouth, telling him she was about to come. Her movements quickened. Walter gripped her thighs and gazed up at the glorious sight of Chloe, her head thrown back and eyes closed, lips pulled back in a grimace of ecstasy. Her body suddenly tensed, inner muscles clamped around him. A single cry escaped her. Walter emitted his own loud groan as he climaxed inside of her.

"Oh, god." Chloe slowly collapsed onto him, her head against his shoulder. She felt his arms encircle her. They lay like that for several minutes listening to each other's heavy breathing, smelling each other's sweat. _I wish we could stay like this forever,_ Chloe thought dreamily, _Just like this, basking in the afterglow._ She smiled. "It's amazing."

"What is?" Walter murmured, groggy.

Chloe turned her head to whisper into his ear. "How in sync we are." She chuckled, her breath tickling him. "We always come at the same time. That's not usual."

"It's not?" He wasn't experienced enough to know; Chloe was his first and only lover.

"No." She nuzzled the side of his neck. "In fact, I didn't experience any orgasms at all before Byron." She felt Walter turn his head until their foreheads touched, smiled as his hand brushed the loose strands of hair from her face. "Does it bother you when I talk about him?"

"No." She knew from his tone that he meant it; Walter wasn't the type to fib just to make others feel better. He felt no need to compete with the memory of her dead husband; understood that her love for Byron was different from her love for Walter, though her feelings for both were equally strong. His acceptance of this was one of the many things Chloe loved about Walter.

Once they had recovered enough from their activities, Chloe and Walter rose from the bed and made their way to the bathroom. The claw-foot tub was also fitted with a shower head and a curtain that wrapped all the way around. Walter pulled the curtain around, leaving a narrow opening which he reached through to turn on the water. When it reached the right temperature he twisted the valve that diverted the water to the shower head. _Hissss._ He removed his wife-beater, tossed it aside, then turned to Chloe and froze, eyes widening in horror. Chloe had removed her scrubs top and bra, exposing the dark bruises that marred the skin of her upper arms.

"It's okay," she said, trying to reassure him.

Walter reached a trembling hand towards the discolored flesh, jerked it away. "I did that." His voice was heavy with shame and self-recrimination. He'd _hurt_ her. Hurt Chloe…

Soft warm hands cradled his face, forced his gaze to meet her hazel eyes which were still blue-tinted from the joy they'd shared moments ago. "It wasn't your fault," she said firmly, "It's nothing. You've never hurt me and I know you never will."

He wished he felt so certain.

"C'mon," she took his hands and stepped into the tub, "Don't wanna let the hot water go to waste."

Walter reluctantly followed her into the shower. She pulled the curtain closed, shutting out the world and its harsh judgments. But Walter had brought his own.

"How can you know I won't hurt you?" he persisted even as Chloe wrapped her arms around him and held him close. His eyes were drawn to the evidence of his guilt. "_I_ can't even be sure of that."

"Faith," Chloe answered simply, "I know the things you're capable of. You could shatter every bone in my body and hardly break a sweat. But I also know, just as certainly, that you _won't_."

"_How_ can you know?" Walter repeated, too fearful of himself to understand.

"I told you," Chloe smiled, "Faith." She kissed him, putting all her love and trust into this simple act, and Walter responded in kind, even as his doubt continued to eat at him. The many awful things he'd witnessed as Rorschach had extinguished whatever faith he might have possessed long ago. He believed only in that which could be proven, logically and beyond doubt. If he was capable of harming the only person he'd ever loved, even by accident, then what chance did Walter have against the remnants of Rorschach's insatiable rage? What guarantee did he have that it would not happen again? He didn't know. _He didn't know…_


	6. A Little Piece of Heaven

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Chloe and Walter dressed and came downstairs, each with an arm around the other's waist. Elsie gave the couple a sly look which made Chloe smirk and Walter's face become flushed.

"Dinner's almost ready," the older woman announced, "I'm sure you two have worked up quite an appetite what with recent activities." She paused for emphasis. "Work and such."

Chloe feared poor Walter might spontaneously combust, he was so red. "Cut it out, Els."

"Oh, let an old lady have some fun." Elsie headed back for the kitchen, then abruptly turned back as something occurred to her. "Almost forgot, Lila called and invited us all to the social. It'd be a good opportunity for Walter to meet everyone."

Walter gave Chloe a querying look.

"It's a weekly thing," Chloe explained, "Every Sunday after church everybody meets at the town's community center. You know, food, chatting, that kind of thing. Gives everybody a chance to catch up, especially heathens like us who don't attend mass." She grinned.

"Oh." Walter didn't look too thrilled at the prospect.

"It _would_ give people a chance to get to know you and get used to the idea of you living with us," Chloe said, "Gotta happen sooner or later."

_Rather it be later. _Much _later,_ Walter thought.

Elsie took pity on him. "You don't have to decide right away. Sunday's still a ways off."

"Alright." Though glad for the reprieve, Walter already knew what his answer would be. Not much choice in the matter, really. If he planned to stay in Jubilation he would have to get to know its people. He just hoped the feeling that stole over him was just nerves and not foreboding.

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Though the sky was clear, the day had a strong chill. Nevertheless, more than a few people waited outside to witness the arrival of the town's newest resident. They milled about in small groups casually conversing about everything except the reason they were braving the late autumn cold. Most of the young children were outdoors as well, though for entirely different reasons; the community center included a playground complete with swings, jungle gym, seesaws, slides, and a merry-go-round. The mid-morning air was filled with elated shrieks.

Deb Blascoe, co-owner of Blascoe's Diner and General Store, craned her neck as a vehicle came into view. Deb was one of those women who looked as if she either ran a diner or a home-based beauty shop; hair dyed brilliant red and tied up in a loose bun, careworn face caked with too much makeup, pursed and wrinkled lips painted garish red, and eyes haloed in orange eye shadow. A lipstick-smeared cigarette was scissored between two fingers with long lacquered nails. Deb was the type of woman who wore her cynicism like a badge of honor; for whom the sun rose and set around her diner's coffee machine and who seemed to draw nutrition from the ever-present flow of gossip.

"Here they come," she rasped in her smoker's voice. The women of her gossip-circle turned their attention to the approaching car.

Lila Danvers had driven over to Elsie's as soon as mass had ended. She and Elsie sat together in the front of the doctor's forest green sedan chattering so fast it sounded like another language. In the backseat, Walter gave Chloe a bewildered look. Chloe grinned. "Better get used to it; this is how it'll sound at the social. Only, you know, louder."

_Great._ Walter sighed and looked out the window. Jubilation looked like something out of a Rockwell painting; green lawns and picket fences, tire swings hanging from massive trees, cute little houses with flowerboxes hanging out their windows. All it needed was a bunch of kids in striped shirts playing stickball…oh, wait, there they were.

Chloe nudged him. "Brace yourself. Here we are."

Walter looked past the two older women in the front seat to the functional brick building that dominated the view. Groups of men and women clustered around the front of the building, apparently waiting to get their first glimpse of their resident fugitive. It suddenly occurred to Walter that he was nervous. Him! A man who once single-handedly took on six armed Knot-Tops without a qualm and won! Yet the sight of all those rural people in their Sunday best craning their necks to get a look at him made Walter want to dive for cover.

Sensing his anxiety, Chloe placed a hand on his knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Relax. They don't bite."

Walter looked at her and smiled in spite of his nerves. Chloe was wearing a navy blue dress and had her long hair draped loose over her shoulders. She looked pretty. Walter felt himself grow calm at the sight of her.

Lila parked the car and they all got out, she and Elsie still chatting nonstop while Walter and Chloe trailed behind them, holding hands.

Bess Everton, a stouter, darker clone of Deb who _was_ the town's beautician, blew a cloud of stale cigarette smoke and squinted at the approaching couple. "Doesn't _look_ dangerous."

"Doesn't look like much of anything," Deb grumbled, disappointed, "'Cept maybe a grown-up street urchin."

"I dunno," Myra Birdsong, Vernon's wife, tilted her head, "Eyes are pretty intense."

Deb scoffed. "Blue eyes always look intense. 'Specially around here," she spoke authoritatively as one of Jubilation's handful of Caucasians.

"Like the color of his hair, though," Bess said. The others nodded agreement.

"Watch out for Bess, the one in the middle," Chloe whispered, "She can get pretty handsy. Hi!" She released Walter's hand and opened her arms as the gossip group collectively lunged forward and assaulted her with hugs while Walter stood back and wondered if "handsy" was a real word. Once Chloe managed to disentangle herself she proceeded with the introductions. "Deb, Bess, Myra, I'd like you all to meet Walter, my fiancé."

Walter blinked; this was the first time Chloe had referred to him as her fiancé.

"Walter, this is Deb Blascoe, Bess Everton, and Myra Birdsong."

Wary nods were exchanged, followed by uncomfortable silence.

"So," Deb finally spoke up, "you really that Rorschach guy?" Deb was not a strong believer in tact. Her two companions made the suitable admonishing noises even as they eagerly awaited the redhead's answer.

Walter was rather relieved to get this out of the way. "Was. Not anymore."

Three carefully plucked sets of eyebrows rose. "What's that supposed to mean, 'Not anymore'?" Bess asked.

"It means he gave it up," Chloe answered for him.

"You don't say." Deb didn't bother to conceal her skepticism. "What changed your mind? Sure as hell wasn't the Keene Act."

"Isn't it obvious?" Bess grinned and placed a motherly hand on Walter's arm, much to his dismay. "It's love! The love of a good woman can turn any man around. Ain't that right, hon?"

"Er, yes." To his growing horror, the stout beautician leaned in and placed her other hand on his shoulder.

Chloe struggled to keep a straight face at the sight of his obvious discomfort. "Well, we'd better get inside," she said, to Walter's eternal gratitude, "Lotsa introductions to make." She gently disentangled him from the older woman's grasp and walked him briskly into the community center. The trio watched them disappear through the door.

"Seems shy," Bess mused.

Deb snorted. "What d'you expect with you pawin' at him?"

"I wasn't _pawing_," Bess snapped, affronted, "I was being friendly."

Myra tuned out her friends' bickering and stared at the door with a thoughtful frown. Vernon had shared with her all he had read about the masked vigilante. It had given her the impression of someone cold and soulless, with a volatile temper. Despite the stranger's quiet and polite demeanor, the pastor's wife had detected a steely edge that left her with a feeling of vague disquiet.

Inside the brick building was a milling crowd of what appeared to be hundreds of people, and every one of them was looking at the newly arrived couple. Walter had never felt so exposed. Chloe squeezed his hand.

"Hey, Chloe." A large, bearded man resembling a cross between a lumberjack and Santa Clause ambled over. His pearly teeth gleamed from the forest of his thick brown beard. "This the guy who stole away Jubilation's most eligible bachelorette?"

Chloe laughed. "Walter, this is Lila Danvers's son Craig. Craig, this is Walter."

Walter's outstretched hand was engulfed in the larger man's warm grasp.

"How's it going, Walter?" From him it sounded like a genuine inquiry rather than the typical empty platitude.

Walter shrugged. "Alright."

"He's already survived an encounter with the Hens," Chloe added, using the common nickname for the trio of gossipy women (though never uttered to their faces).

Craig's eyebrows rose. He leaned in close and asked in a slightly less booming voice, "Bess try ta get her hooks into ya?"

Walter nodded, the corners of his mouth faintly upturned. He found himself liking this bearlike man.

"Poor guy! Lucky you got away in one piece." Craig slung a beefy arm over the startled redhead's shoulders. "C'mon, lemme show you around to some safer folks." He proceeded to lead Walter to various groups of people and make introductions while Chloe trailed behind them. At one point she got caught up in conversation with some of her childhood friends and Walter found himself more or less on his own, but by then he'd managed to regain some of his equilibrium. That is, until he met Vernon.

Craig introduced them. "Walt, this is our pastor, Vernon Birdsong."

The distinguished man eyed the former vigilante critically. "Mr. Kovacs. I've heard so much about you." His voice was deep and melodious, an asset to one who preached the Word. His tone at that particular moment emphasized more of the hellfire and damnation aspects of his beliefs than the love and forgiveness parts. "So, what is your impression of our humble town? Hardly the teeming metropolis you're accustomed to, I'm sure."

The pastor's polite hostility was a tangible weight. Walter felt mildly relieved; hostility was what he was used to.

"Peaceful," he replied quietly.

"And vulnerable?" It wasn't really a question. More of a dare.

Craig stepped in. "Not as long as Hank's on the job. Right, Sheriff?" He waved the looming figure of Henry Dobbs over. The town's sheriff reluctantly joined the group; he made a point of keeping his distance from the redhead.

"It's what you all pay me for," he said. His eyes met Walter's blue stare. "Elsie keepin' you busy?"

"Yes."

"That's good," Henry said, deadpan, "You know what they say. 'Idle hands are the devil's playground.'"

"Very true," Vernon nodded sagely.

Craig, wondering if he might have made a mistake in drawing Henry in on the conversation, spoke up. "Y'know, Chloe's been introducing Walter as her fiancé."

"Really." Icicles seemed to form in the air from Henry's short response.

"Yeah," Craig faltered, "Um, hey, maybe they'll ask you to do the honors, Vern."

If anything, the temperature in the immediate vicinity plunged even further. Vern and Henry stared at Walter with an intensity that would have put Rorschach to shame. Walter sighed. "Excuse me. Need some air." He walked away from the two hostile men and the uncomfortable Craig, passed the buffet table laden with steaming trays and heaping platters, and stepped through the open door to the welcome chill of the outdoors. He'd felt the eyes of everyone follow him, some curious, some fearful. Out here there were only the boisterous children clambering over the playground equipment who paid him no mind. Their indifference came as a relief. Walter zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into the pockets. He watched the children of Jubilation at their tireless play; they lived up to the town's name.

"Hey, you the mask?"

Walter looked to his left where a twelve-year-old girl had magically appeared. Her dark hair hung in a series of little braids, the ends weighed down with multicolored beads. She held herself with the haughtiness of the prepubescent girl who had yet to realize that in terms of worldliness she hadn't even scratched the surface.

"Well," she said impatiently, "are you?"

"I was."

She gave him the once over. "Thought masks were big guys with lotsa muscle. You're just a little guy." She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

Walter shrugged. "Sorry."

"Way my daddy talked about ya, I thought you'd be a giant." Her attitude said she suspected he shrank himself out of spite.

Again, a shrug.

"Don't talk much." Another mark against him.

"Not much to say." Walter's gaze wandered over the playground. Several small children were clustered around the jungle gym and shouting up at a boy who clung to the top rungs for dear life, eyes squeezed shut.

"That's my cousin Alvin," the girl snorted, "Stupid baby's always climbin' up there 'n' getting stuck."

The children started chanting, "Jump! Jump! Jump!" The little boy seemed to shrink in on himself.

Walter strode across the crowded playground towards the jungle gym. The miniature gawkers moved aside, watching the stranger in curiosity. Most of them had heard of him; they had expected something scarier than this slight, pasty-skinned man. Walter looked up at the towering structure. He freed his hands from his jacket pockets and grasped the cold metal rungs. It was an easy climb, designed for uncoordinated youngsters still growing into their bodies. He reached the top in no time.

The little boy, sensing his presence, slowly opened eyes that were large and liquid dark like a deer's to regard the newcomer solemnly.

"You okay?" Walter asked, voice low.

The child shook his head a fraction. "I can't get down."

"Got up here alright," Walter pointed out.

"Didn't look so high from the bottom," the boy explained, "But up here the ground's so far away." His little chin trembled. Walter doubted he was even in kindergarten yet, he was so small. His tightly curled hair framed his head like a black halo. What could be seen of the palms of his tiny hands were startling pink against the rich brown of the rest of his skin. So sweet and vulnerable, so easily broken.

"My name's Walter. What's yours?"

"Alvin."

Walter swung himself around until he was behind Alvin, his arms on either side of the boy so his body formed a protective cage. Alvin tilted his head back to stare into Walter's eyes, their faces upside-down to each other's. Walter gestured with his chin. "Look straight ahead."

Alvin obeyed. He could see over the chain-link fence which surrounded the playground, through the recently planted elms to the nearby houses.

"Now," said Walter, "move your foot down a step."

"I'll fall!"

"I'll catch you."

Alvin felt the heat of the man's body against his back, solid and comforting. Tightening his already fierce grip on the metal bar, he slowly lifted his right foot and brought it down to the next rung, then just as slowly brought his left foot down beside it. He then shifted his hold down one rung, first the right hand, then the left. Walter moved down a step as well so their bodies remained in the same position.

"That's good," he said, "Now the next one."

They made slow progress, step by cautious step, Walter murmuring assurances all the way. Finally he felt his own shoes make contact with the gravel-strewn ground. His hands released the metal bars to clasp the child's narrow waist. "Look down."

Alvin, who by now trusted this pale, red-haired man, let his eyes swivel down past his sneakered feet to take in the sight of the ground, so much nearer than before. He turned his head to look at Walter whose thin mouth had curved into a faint smile.

"Jump."

The boy jumped, Walter's hands steadying his fall until the soles of his sneakers were once again on solid ground. Alvin beamed up at Walter who smiled back. "You did it."

"_Get your hands off him!"_

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Chloe helped herself to another apple fritter. Nadine, one of her childhood playmates and fellow tomboy, laughed. "Jeez! Doesn't your aunt ever feed you?"

"Missed breakfast," Chloe mumbled with a mouth crammed with pastry. In truth, she'd felt a bit queasy the last few mornings, probably due to anxiety over this day. But Walter seemed to be doing alright, from what she'd seen, and Chloe's appetite was back with a vengeance.

"I thought you hated Deb's fritters."

Chloe blinked at the half-eaten bun in her hand. "These're Deb's? She change the recipe or something?"

Nadine gave her an are-you-crazy look. "You kidding? Deb hasn't changed her recipes in forty years!"

"Huh." Chloe frowned in puzzlement. "Maybe it's my taste buds that've changed."

"Mayb--"

"_Get your hands off him!"_

Chloe whirled, heart pounding in sudden panic. Her unfinished apple fritter dropped from her hand onto the floor. People were clustered around one of the exits, the one that led to the playground. Chloe rushed forward, squeezed through the crush of bodies. The cold air hit her lungs as she burst through and squinted in the bright sunlight. She saw Olivia Harrison storm across the playground to the jungle gym where Walter stood, a small boy at his side. Olivia grabbed the boy's wrist and jerked him away from the redhead.

"But Mama," the child protested, "He was helpin' me!"

"Hush, Alvie." The woman glowered at Walter with a rage born of unthinking terror. "Come near my boy again, I'll kill you."

Chloe hurried to Walter's side. "For god's sake, Olivia! He wasn't hurting him."

The frightened mother turned her wrathful gaze on the other woman. "Only agreed to come because I thought everybody'd keep their eyes on him. Didn't think he could sneak away, everybody knowin' what he is." She all but spat the words. Her eyes shifted to glower at Walter once again. "Shoulda stayed locked up," she snarled, "Monsters like that don't belong in a town fulla good people and their babies."

Olivia spun and marched off, dragging her protesting son. "Fallon!" she barked, "We're leaving."

Fallon, her husband, broke away from the crowd of onlookers to follow his family. He threw a single glance over his shoulder at the silent redhead, one which conveyed a sense of blame for ruining the social. Judging from the expressions in the crowd, his sentiments were widely shared.

Chloe took hold of Walter's arm. "Come on." She led him through the staring townsfolk who were all too eager to make way for them. Elsie and Lila broke away from the crowd to join them; they and the two pariahs got into the doctor's car and left.

Seated in the back, Walter turned to Chloe. To most people his face was expressionless, but Chloe knew him well enough to see the sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Oh, shut up," Elsie snapped from the front passenger seat, startling them, "You got nothing to be sorry for. It's them and their dumb fears that made a mess of a perfectly nice day."

Lila shook her head sadly. "Never thought I'd see my friends and neighbors acting like a bunch of xenophobic hicks."

"Afraid of Rorschach," Walter said quietly.

"Rorschach's dead," Chloe spoke in a firm tone, "The sooner they realize that, the better."

Walter stared out the window, watched the passing houses with their green lawns and sheltering trees. Such a pretty town. Like a little piece of Heaven on earth. He should have known he'd never belong in a place like that.

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**A/N: Things aren't looking too good for poor Walter. Unfortunately, things are only going to get worse. Consider yourselves warned.**


	7. Long Cold Night

**A/N:** Sorry I couldn't give you all a longer chapter after the wait, but I had a minor bout of writer's block that I had to get through before I was satisfied with the results you see before you. As I'd warned in the previous chapter, things are getting tougher for poor ol' Walter. Looks like he just can't get a break. Oh well, hope you guys like what I've written anyway.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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It was dark. Elsie relied on her memory to guide her through the maze of furniture to the bathroom. Damn weak bladder; she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept straight through the night. When she'd finished, Elsie crept down the hall towards her room. She kept her hand against the wall for balance, having left her cane by the bed. She was almost at her door when a faint sound reached her ears. The old woman froze, strained her hearing. There, under the faint tick of the hall clock, a sound like someone walking around downstairs. Had she lived in the city, Elsie's first instinct would have been to barricade herself in her room and phone the police. But this was Jubilation. She turned around and descended to the first floor. As she reached the bottom she heard the muted clunk of the cupboard doors opening and closing. She followed the familiar path to the kitchen. Oddly enough, whoever it was hadn't bothered with the lights. Elsie flipped the switch.

Walter blinked in the sudden brightness, but otherwise gave no reaction. He stood in his T-shirt and boxers, feet bare against the cold tile floor. As Elsie watched he opened another cabinet, gazed blankly inside, closed it, then moved on to the next. He repeated the process until he'd looked into every cupboard, then started pulling out the drawers.

"Watcha looking for, Walt?"

He stared down at the neat rows of cutlery as if he wasn't sure of their purpose. "Can't find it," he muttered, distant and distracted, as if talking to himself.

Elsie frowned at his odd behavior. "Find what?"

Walter pushed the drawer closed, pulled out the next one which contained a variety of spatulas and wooden spoons. "My face. Lost my face."

Realization dawned. _He's sleepwalking._ Elsie approached him with care, laid a tentative hand on his arm. Walter didn't react to her touch, just kept rummaging through the junk drawer full of twine and rubber bands and those little twisty-tie things Elsie insisted would come in handy someday. Elsie placed a hand against his cheek and gently steered his face towards her. "Walter?"

"Yes?" He stared with blank eyes. Did he even know who he was talking to?

"Come on. You should be in bed."

"I have to find my face," his voice held a faint petulance.

Elsie sighed. Then an idea occurred. "I forgot my cane upstairs, Walter. Will you help me back to my room?"

A slow blink. "Alright."

He let her take his arm and lead him out of the kitchen. Elsie flipped off the light as they passed. They walked carefully up the stairs, traversed the hall to the bedroom. Chloe lay sound asleep on her side of the bed. Elsie coaxed Walter into the room, convinced him to lie down on the bed. She pulled the covers up to the redhead's chin.

"Good night, Walter." She kissed his forehead.

"G'night…" His eyes had already drifted closed. Elsie tiptoed out of the room and quietly shut the door behind her. This wasn't the first time she had found him in that condition; not long after he and Chloe arrived Elsie had discovered Walter about to exit the house dressed the same as he was this night, in shorts and T-shirt. Elsie had stopped him just in time and coaxed him back upstairs. He hadn't spoken then, just stared at nothing. She wondered where he would have gone if left to his own devices; what he would have done. Elsie had kept the incident to herself, as she knew she would this one; Walter and Chloe had worries enough. Especially now that the town seemed to have it out for them. Elsie would just have to be on her toes come nightfall and hope the redheaded somnambulist didn't slip past her unnoticed.

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_Cold. Breath ghosted through the latex fabric of his face in a misty cloud. High above it all on the crumbling roof of an ancient building. So dark he could actually see the stars glitter overhead like shards of glass. City was silent. Dead._

_But there…a figure walked the street. Black against black. Followed with his eyes. Who would be out on a night like this?_

_Now on the ground. No memory of descent. Flicker of movement ahead where the figure disappeared down an even darker alleyway. Moved to follow. Soundless as shadow. Turned a corner and there, just ahead. So near yet indistinct. Reached out, grabbed a shoulder. Figure turned, smiling her familiar smile. Chloe. But the smile quickly vanished at the sight of his changing face. Eyes and mouth wide, white. A keening scream. Cracks appeared across her face as she gave vent to terror and then shattered. Like ice._

Chloe gasped; her eyes flew open. The pervading darkness made unfamiliar looming shapes of her surroundings. She sat up in panic even as sense caught up with her conscious mind. This was her room, she was in bed. Walter lay beside her, oblivious in slumber. She looked at him and shivered; the fading details of her dream still clung to her mind. She hugged herself only to stifle a cry as unexpected pain lanced through her. She jerked her arms away from herself, looked down at her chest. Her hands slowly moved to touch her breasts. Chloe hissed; they were tender. A thought crept up on her; one that had been hovering at the back of her mind for days in anticipation of this moment. Chloe got out of bed, careful not to wake Walter, and hurried to the bathroom. She shut the door, switched on the light. Its brightness stabbed into her tired eyeballs. She stood before the sink and stared blearily into the mirror.

How long ago? She counted back in her head. Too long. Chloe groaned and sat on the toilet. They hadn't used anything since their reunion in New York; hadn't even _thought_ about it. God, this couldn't happen now when things were still so uncertain!

_Calm down, Chloe. Don't jump to conclusions._ It was a simple enough test. She could get her hands on one easily enough at work. It could prove to be nothing. And if it wasn't…

_Cross that bridge when we get there._ Right.

Right…

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Chloe stared at the results. She'd run the test twice, then ran it two more times in case wishful thinking made a difference (it didn't). Four results, all the same. Positive.

Chloe was pregnant.

Shit.

It wasn't as if she never wanted children; it was just that the timing was _so_ wrong. What if it didn't work out here in Jubilation? Starting over from scratch would be difficult enough without throwing a baby into the mix.

"Chloe?" Lila stepped into the room of her converted house which functioned as the hospital's lab. "You alright?"

_Great. Wonderful. Couldn't be better._ "No." Chloe hung her head, too tired to pretend her worries weren't eating away at her.

The doctor moved to the younger woman's side, brow creased in concern. Then she saw the test results arrayed on the counter. "Oh."

"I always thought it'd bee the happiest day of my life." Chloe made a sound between a laugh and a sob. She felt a hand on her shoulder, swiveled her head to meet the older woman's gray eyes.

"What are you going to do?"

Chloe shrugged. "I just don't know."

Lila hesitated. "Are you thinking of terminating?"

Chloe hadn't been thinking of anything, still trying to wrap her mind around the fact, but the question made her recoil. "No! I couldn't--"

"Okay." Lila held up her hands in a placating gesture. "Then you've already decided."

Chloe sighed, sat on a nearby stool. "As if things weren't tough enough. How am I gonna tell Walter?"

"He'll figure it out…eventually." Lila's mouth quirked.

Chloe looked at her with a puzzled frown. "You're not worried about how he'll react?"

The doctor shrugged. "Craig said he's a good guy. He always was a good judge of character." It was Craig who had talked Lila into divorcing his father; six months later her ex was arrested after beating up his girlfriend.

Chloe was silent for a few moments, deep in thought. "I'll give it a few days," she decided, "Till I can get used to the idea. Then I'll tell him."

Lila smiled. "Elsie will be thrilled."

"Tell me about it," Chloe laughed.

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The sun lost its potency with the onset of early winter. It fell beyond the horizon much sooner than in summer, and the nights were long and cold.

In this long cold night a small figure ran through darkened streets towards the emptiness of the fields beyond. Far behind a door hung open, releasing the house's warmth to the bitter night. Within the cooling house lay a heap of battered flesh that was once a woman. Beside her, smeared with her congealing blood, lay a much-used baseball bat. A tall man stumbled onto the grisly scene and fell to his knees beside the still figure. He threw back his head and wailed. His anguished cries carried out the open door and into the uncaring night.

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"Elsie! For god's sake, open the door!" Loud thuds rained on the front door threatened to splinter the wood. Elsie hurried down the stairs as fast as she dared, went to the door, yanked it open. Behind and above her Chloe and Walter stood on the steps, hair mussed and garments rumpled from sleep.

Henry Dobbs stood at the door wearing his sheriff's uniform, sidearm included. His wan face and trembling shoulders bespoke of horror and ill contained rage. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Elsie blinked, still groggy from her interrupted sleep.

Henry maneuvered past her and stood glaring up the steps.

"Hank," Elsie closed the door, "What's goin' on?"

"Somebody attacked Olivia Harrison," the sheriff said in a cold, dreadful voice, "Beat her with Fallon's old baseball bat."

"Jesus," Chloe gasped. Walter's face went blank. Elsie's hand went to her mouth. "Is she--"

"She's alive," Henry said, "Barely." His eyes bore into the silent redhead. "Where've you been all night, Walter?"

"He's been here with us!" Chloe all but shouted, angered by her friend's unspoken accusation, "You don't seriously think--"

"Olivia's son's missing," Henry interrupted, piling on more horrors, "Fallon's so upset Lila had to sedate him. Their neighbors are already screamin' for Rorschach's head. I need to take you in, Walter, _before_ the lynch mob gets here."

"No!" Chloe held Walter's arm in a deathgrip. "Goddammit, Hank, you have no proof! You can't just arrest him!"

"It's not an arrest, it's protective custody. If I don't take him in now he could wind up hanging from the nearest tree before morning."

"They wouldn't do that," Elsie protested weakly, "Not here."

But Walter's eyes said yes, they would. He knew about hatred borne on terror, knew what it turned "civilized" people into. Already the sound trickled in through the closed front door; the distant roar of the multi-headed beast known as the mob. Walter turned, headed for the bedroom.

"Where the hell are you going?" Henry demanded.

"Need to get dressed," Walter answered over his shoulder. He went into the bedroom, threw on the jeans and sweater he'd worn earlier that day, went back downstairs and put on his sneakers.

"You're not seriously going with him?" Chloe asked, astonished. He looked at her and at that instant she saw how frightened he was. "Wait." She ran back into the bedroom, threw on some clothes, hurried out. "I'm going with you," her voice and expression left no room for argument. Walter--selfishly, he knew--couldn't quite hide the relief he felt at the knowledge of her accompanying him.

"We have to go _now_," Henry said firmly. He took hold of Walter's arm, but left his cuffs hooked to his belt. They stepped outside, the planks of the front porch creaked under their weight. Their breaths misted in the frigid night. As they descended the porch steps the first vehicles arrived, headlights blazing down the length of the driveway. They skewed to hasty stops and their occupants piled out, mostly men, some of them carrying weighty objects, all of them enraged. Henry released Walter's arm and moved between him and the oncoming crowd. "That's close enough," he said firmly, "I'm taking him in for questioning. You all get back in your cars and head home."

"What'd you do with Alvin Harrison, you fuckin' freak!" one of the men shouted, hefting a tire iron. His words set off the others, raising a painful din in which words were impossible to distinguish, yet left no doubt as to their intentions. Henry's hand rested on the holstered sidearm. He didn't want to have to draw it on his neighbors, even to warn them off.

"Keep back!" he struggled to be heard over the roar, "There's nothing you can do here! Go on home!"

"Goddamn killer!" "--monster--!" "--fore he kills somebody else!"

The mob was working itself into a frenzy. Walter could see it clearly; any moment now someone would throw something, someone would rush forward, and then the mob would surge over them, all reason cast aside in favor of quick and bloody vengeance. Henry's fingers tightened around the pommel of his gun. Chloe wrapped her arms around Walter as if to shield him. Walter tried to disentangle himself, to push her away, but couldn't break her hold. In the seething mass of vengeful men and women, someone raised his arm to cast the first stone.

"_ROWF!"_

A mountain of fur and slavering teeth manifested from the dark and stood facing the startled crowd. So fearsome was the sight the rage that had possessed them died in an instant, leaving in the single-minded mob's place a milling group of frightened individuals. The creature prowled back and forth before the slack-jawed interlopers, as terrifying as any hellspawned demon. It glowered as if daring some fool to cross an invisible line. Fortunately, none had the courage to step forward.

Chloe stared in astonishment. "Nixon?"

The world's laziest dog was put out by all the noise, the angry scents, and the murderous intent which had emanated from the mass of intruders. They triggered instincts thought bred out of domesticated canines; ancient knowledge of territoriality, of protecting one's pack. The Lady-Who-Fed-Him was of his pack, as were the Woman-Who-Once-Cried and the Man-Who-Smelled-Of-Smog, whose distinctive scents had mingled with that of the Lady over time. Those who came to do them harm would have to contend with one hundred and eighty pounds of very pissed off mutt.

Elsie hobbled forward, leaning on her cane. She stood beside her uncharacteristically lively dog and glared at the silent crowd. "Look at you," her voice dripped with scorn, "Actin' like a buncha thugs. I always believed Jubilation was better than that! How dare you!" She lifted her cane, stabbed the end towards them accusingly. Several people noticeably flinched. "How _dare_ you invade my home in the middle of the night and scare the living daylights out of me and my family! I'm ashamed of you all." She thunked the cane down.

"But he beat up Olivia," a solitary voice quavered, "He took little Alvin and did God knows what to him."

"If that's true," Henry spoke with bold authority, "I will find out and I _will_ see justice served. _Justice_, not revenge." He glanced pointedly at Walter as he said this, earning him a scowl from Chloe.

"That's right," Elsie nodded, "Now get your asses back in your cars and get off my property this instant." The winter chill could not compete with the iciness of her tone.

The earlier spell of mindless rage broken, the shamefaced rabble shuffled their feet as they walked away, weapons dangling from their limp hands. Soon the driveway was empty once again, leaving only the faint drone of engines and the terrible memory of what had passed.

Elsie patted Nixon's blocky head. "Good dog."

Nixon snuffled, wandered off for the comfort of his doghouse. All this fuss! It was enough to make a dog miss out on his vital sleep.

Henry all but sagged in relief. He turned to the silent man behind him. "Alright. Let's go."

Chloe, arms still around Walter, tightened her grip. "He's not going anywhere."

"Chloe, there could be even more of them tomorrow, with _shotguns_. It's not safe for him out here."

"Not safe anywhere," Walter murmured.

"He stays," Elsie said in a tone that brooked no argument, "Not having anyone who lives in my house get run off by fools."

Henry sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. At least let me post a deputy here for Walter's protection."

"You mean a minder," Chloe grumbled.

"Chlo," he said wearily, "I really am trying here."

Her expression softened. "I know. Sorry."

"Okay." Henry turned and stabbed a warning finger at the redhead. "Don't even think about leaving Elsie's property till this gets sorted out. I already got an assault and missing person to deal with, I don't need to add a murder on top of that."

Walter nodded. "Won't leave."

"Fine." He stormed off to his vehicle. "Goddamned mess…"

Elsie, Chloe, and Walter went back inside the house. Chloe shivered with cold and the terrible knowledge that she'd very nearly lost the man she loved to people she'd known most of her life and yet were strangers to her. Walter put a comforting arm around her. "Didn't do it," he whispered hoarsely.

Chloe looked at him, hurt by his doubting her faith in him. "I know you didn't."

They made their way up the stairs, back to their bedroom, though neither would get anymore sleep this night. Elsie watched them disappear beyond the second floor landing. A terrible thought had crept up on her and sunk its teeth in where no amount of denial could dislodge it. Supposing he _did_ do it, but couldn't _remember._ Supposing Elsie hadn't woken up in time to catch him during one of his sleepwalks. He could have left the house, could have ridden her bike into town, all without ever waking up. He could have done anything. Anything at all.


	8. Begotten by Despair

**A/N:** This chapter contains what the entertainment industry euphemistically refers to as "adult situations." I'm letting you all know this because I wrote it a tad more graphic than I usually do, so if you're squeamish about that kinda thing you'd best avert your eyes.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetical works of Andrew Marvell. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Olivia was transported to the larger, better equipped hospital in Lovettesville as soon as she was deemed stable enough for travel. She had been comatose since her husband discovered her. Though neither Lila nor her colleagues in the Lovettesville hospital came right out and said so, none believed there was much chance of her ever waking. The trauma was just too severe.

After sending Deputy Kyle Hauper to guard the Mayweather house, Henry Dobbs organized a search for the still missing Alvin. The parties consisted mainly of local civilians led by police brought in from neighboring towns on the sheriff's request for assistance. Trained hounds were also brought in the hopes of tracking the child, but the light morning rain was sure to have washed traces of the boy's scent away. Henry held out little hope of finding anything, but at least the search kept everyone busy and, hopefully, distracted them from their vengeful thoughts. God help them all if Alvin was found dead; not only would Henry have lost his only witness to the brutal attack, but the mob which had been narrowly turned away the previous night could prove unstoppable with such a tragedy as motivation. The sheriff hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was not entirely convinced that Walter Kovacs was the one who attacked the Harrisons. His activities as Rorschach pointed more to a twisted sense of justice rather than petty revenge, and Olivia Harrison was morally straight as an arrow ever since she became a mother. But if not Walter, then who else could have been capable of such a grisly act in this town?

Vernon Birdsong was conspicuously absent from the search for good reason; Olivia was his baby sister. He and his wife and daughter were all in Lovettesville with Fallon, waiting tearfully at Olivia's side and praying her eyes would soon open. When word of the thwarted mob reached him, the pastor holed up in the hospital's chapel and silently begged God's forgiveness, for he'd sorely wished he had been there to take revenge for his sister. That the supposedly reformed vigilante's presence had brought the good people of Jubilation to such a woeful state…it was more than the pious man could bear.

Vernon was unaware that young Judi Birdsong watched her father in his prayers. She kept out of sight, careful not to make a sudden move which could set the beads in her hair to clicking against each other. It frightened her to see her daddy on his knees, weeping in anguish and impotent rage. Though at the age where most girls began to feel embarrassment towards their parents, Judi had always viewed her father as something of a superhero (though she wouldn't have uttered that unpopular word aloud). No matter how terrible things seemed, he had always maintained an air of calm authority. It shook the preteen girl's small world to see her pillar of strength brought so low. The only thing to rival that hurt was the conviction that her father was _wrong_, that the notorious Walter Kovacs was not the one who hurt her aunt and took her little cousin away. Judi remembered all too clearly how the slight redhead had helped Alvin down from the jungle gym; how patient and gentle he had been. She could not believe the same man who had done that could also take a baseball bat to Aunt Olivia's skull. But Judi was old enough to know that rising to his defense would only anger her parents. She was only a child, after all. Her opinions carried no weight with them.

Meanwhile, Myra Birdsong sat at Olivia's bedside and witnessed with dread her family's unraveling. Her sister-in-law all but dead, her nephew missing, her husband and brother-in-law distraught, her daughter silent and withdrawn. Only hours ago things had been so good, but a single violent act revealed to the pastor's wife just how much of what Myra had perceived as stable and certain was in fact illusion. How easily it could all be taken away! How drastically it altered the people she thought she knew most. What would they do, she wondered, if Olivia should perish or Alvin be discovered dead, or worse, remained forever missing? Would Vernon's fierce morals crumble in the onslaught of grievous rage? Would Fallon's hard won sobriety be swept away in a tide of alcohol and grief? Myra shuddered and tightened her grip on Olivia's limp hand. _Please_, she prayed, putting all her fears and hopes into that single word.

Across the room from Myra, huddled within himself, Fallon sat alone. Wife gone. Son gone. The two people who mattered most in Fallon's world, who _were_ his world. Gone. He had failed them both as husband and father. He should have been there to protect them, should have listened to Olivia's worries over the dangerous man who now walked among the people of Jubilation. But he had made light of her fretting; told her she'd blown things out of proportion, as she often did. Fallon had been stupid, complacent, and his family had paid the price. He stared at his battered wife, her features misshapen and unrecognizable, and felt bile rise in his throat. Dark, half-formed images swirled through his foggy brain. He shoved them to the back of his mind, unwilling to face the memories of that terrible night. Instead he nursed his boiling rage, his almost lustful need for retribution.

That red-haired freak would pay, Fallon swore.

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Kyle Hauper, lifelong resident and only full-time deputy of the town of Jubilation, raised the axe above his head and brought it down in one smooth motion. The split log tumbled from either side of the ancient and much-scarred stump in two equal halves.

"That oughta do it for now, Kyle," Elsie called from the porch, "Come on in for some dinner."

"Okay, Mrs. Mayweather," said Kyle, polite as ever. He left the axe stuck in the old stump and picked up the halved pieces of wood to throw onto the woodpile. The spry twenty-something man had barely worked up a sweat from his exertions. He trotted up the porch steps with an unconscious spring in his step that made many an older man glower in envy.

Chloe had been surprised to see who Henry had sent over as their "minder." Last time she saw Kyle he had been a gawky teenager with braces and a nasty case of acne. She found it difficult to take the guy seriously as a cop, even if he was armed. Didn't help that he kept smiling that goofy grin of his; adulthood had done nothing to diminish his cheery disposition. It had only faltered a little when Chloe introduced him to Walter. The young deputy eyed the former vigilante warily as they shook hands, but once sufficient time had passed without anyone dead Kyle's habitual good humor soon reasserted itself. Ever helpful, and more than a little bored, he had asked if there was anything he could help with and Elsie took full advantage of Kyle's innocent offer. She was well on the way to having enough firewood to last the winter.

Aside from Kyle, the entire household was fraught with anxieties both shared and private. It stifled conversation, soured appetites.

"Where on earth is Walter?" Elsie grumbled as they gathered at the dining table, "I told him we were sitting down to eat."

"Said he wasn't hungry," Chloe muttered, preoccupied. Walter had been holed up in their room for most of the day. Brooding, she assumed.

Elsie frowned. "Bad mood's no excuse for skipping meals." She spoke as one who had experienced the Great Depression firsthand and therefore never took food for granted. She reached for her cane.

"I'll do it." Chloe stood and left the dining area before her aunt could protest. She climbed the stairs slowly, locked in a silent debate with herself. Tell him now or later? How should she break it to him? How would he react? What would they do if Henry came back to arrest him, or the mob returned to finish what they'd started? The stream of questions distracted her to the point that the sight which confronted her when she opened the bedroom door didn't register for several seconds. Chloe blinked, then gasped as comprehension arose.

Walter was in the process of stuffing his meager possessions into a large duffel bag. He glanced up at Chloe's entrance, but didn't pause in his task.

Chloe stared open-mouthed, one hand still clutching the doorknob. "What're you doing?"

He didn't answer. He emptied the top drawer of the dresser, walked to the bed where the bag lay, and crammed in extra pairs of socks. He moved in a series of jerks rather than his usual efficient grace, as if locked in an internal struggle. His face was pale and utterly blank.

Chloe recovered from her initial shock and felt anger rise in its place. She stormed into the bedroom. The door swung shut behind her. She grabbed Walter's shoulder, made him turn and face her. "What the hell are you _doing?_"

"Packing." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if she'd asked about the weather.

"Packing," Chloe echoed, deadly calm, "So you're running away."

"Yes."

"Without me."

Walter remained silent; he didn't trust his voice. Confronted with Chloe's obvious hurt and anger, it was all he could do to look her in the eye.

Chloe balled her fists. "You bastard. What, so you thought you'd just sneak off without me? Without even _telling_ me? Just bug off and let everybody think they were right about you?" His silence infuriated her all the more. "Say something!"

Walter turned his back on her. "Nothing to say." He zipped the duffel bag in one swift movement. _Ziiip!_ Picked up the bag, turned towards the door. He'd thought it through; the deputy would be on his guard come nightfall, so Walter decided to sneak out the back while the others were occupied with dinner and his absence would go unnoticed for several hours. He would go cross country for a while, maybe hitchhike later. Walter didn't kid himself; he knew that he would be caught at some point. Escape was never his true intention. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken into account Elsie's insistence that he eat, nor Chloe's volunteering to fetch him. A snag, but he maintained some faint hope that she might remain silent out of loyalty to him.

But Chloe proved as stubborn as her aunt. She moved to block his path. "You're not going anywhere."

"Get out of my way," his voice was dull, weary.

"If you leave it'll look like you're guilty," she desperately tried to reason with him, "They'll come after you. You'll go back to prison. Is that what you want?"

Walter stared at a point somewhere over her shoulder.

"I won't let do this," she said.

His free hand reached out and shoved her roughly aside. An angry shout escaped Chloe's mouth, her hand lashed out. There was a sharp _smack_ that seemed to fill the entire room. The couple froze. Walter stared at her, stunned, his cheek reddened with the imprint of her hand. His mind swirled with memories of another's hand which struck him in his youth, the sense of wounded betrayal he'd felt each time it happened. The duffel slipped from his numbed grasp and thunked onto the floor. Chloe's hands flew to her mouth to stifle her guilty cry. Tears welled in hazel eyes tinged gray with sadness. Shakily, she lowered her hands. "Oh god, Walter, I'm so sor--"

Walter slammed her against the wall. Fingers like bands of steel clamped around her upper arms. His contorted face loomed in her vision, eyes like shards of arctic ice. "I'm doing this for you!" he snarled in a voice like Rorschach's rasp, "When the mob comes back they'll be too out of control to care who they hurt to get me. I can't protect you from the whole town!" He faltered, turned his face from her, eyes squeezed shut. His grip on her arms relaxed, hands slid down until they hung loose at his sides. "Can't even protect you from me."

Chloe brought her trembling hands to his face, made him turn his head to look at her. "I told you I'd never leave you. Did you think I wasn't serious?" A tear escaped her left eye, rolled down her cheek. Walter so wanted to brush it away, but he kept his hands at his sides, no longer trusting himself to be gentle.

"I won't leave you," Chloe said once again, resolute, "and I won't let you go without me. If you really wanna leave and start over somewhere else, then that's what we'll do. _Together_."

Walter shook his head, still in her grasp. "I can't keep you safe--"

"I don't need your goddamn protection, Walter. I need _you_," her voice cracked on the last word. That as much as the words themselves eroded Walter's resolve. He stepped into the circle of her arms, pulled her into a strong hug. He stroked Chloe's long graying hair as she sobbed into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I hit you," she sniffed.

Walter thought of the bruises he'd unintentionally left on her arms days ago. "We're even."

"But if you try to sneak off again I'll brain you with Elsie's frying pan."

He snorted. "Can still joke, at least."

Chloe pulled back to meet his gaze, cheeks wet from spilled tears. "Who says I'm joking?"

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Kyle frowned. "Did you hear something?" He was seated at the dining table with Elsie, plates full and waiting for the others to join them.

Elsie _had_ heard something, in point of fact. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before the stress of the last few days pushed those two into an argument. "Didn't hear a thing. Must be your imagination."

"Sounded like shouting." The deputy started to rise from his seat.

"I _said_," Elsie spoke in a no-nonsense voice, each word carefully enunciated, "It's. Your. Imagination."

Kyle stood in a half-crouch and briefly considered pressing the point, then wisdom prevailed. "Yes, ma'am." He sat.

Elsie picked up her fork and speared a bit of casserole.

"Aren't we gonna wait for them?" Kyle asked.

"Like one dog waits on another." Elsie took a bite. She would save the couple's food for later; from the sound of things, they had a lot of emotional baggage to unload and the least she could do was respect their need for privacy.

After a moment's hesitation, Kyle picked up his own fork and dug in.

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"We should probably go downstairs and eat," Chloe murmured without enthusiasm. She and Walter still held each other, her head against his shoulder.

"Mmhm." Walter stroked her back in soothing motions, his calloused hands whispered against the fabric of her thin sweater.

Chloe smiled. "You hungry?"

He slid his hands slowly under her shirt and ran them over the skin of her lower back. "Mmhm."

Fingertips trailed up her spine; she shivered in response. Her smile broadened. It wasn't often that Walter made the first move. Chloe found that she liked it. Despite the somberness of a few minutes ago, or perhaps because of it, the mood shifted quickly to a far more pleasant distraction.

Walter's hands crept higher until they encountered the back clasp of her bra. He fumbled with it to give her a chance to pull away if she wished, but Chloe's only action was to brush her lips against the side of his neck. The feel of her breath on his skin caused a flare of desire. Walter unhooked the clasp of her bra and ran his hands over the expanse of skin between her shoulder blades.

"I need you too, Chloe."

"I know," she whispered. They pulled back just enough for their lips to meet. Tongues danced and probed in their joined mouths. Chloe slid her hands to Walter's front and unbuttoned his shirt. They reluctantly ended the kiss so Walter could pull Chloe's sweater over her head. He tossed the garment aside as Chloe slipped out of her loosened bra. She then grabbed the lapels of his open shirt and peeled it down, restraining his arms in the process. Chloe smirked at her captive, pressed herself against him. The cotton fabric of his wife-beater rubbed against her hardened nipples. Walter lunged and captured her lips with his. As the kiss deepened Chloe pulled his shirt the rest of the way off and let it drop at their feet. She slid her hands under his wife-beater to feel the muscles of his chest and stomach. Walter's hands cupped her breasts, squeezed them gently. Chloe moaned into his mouth. Walter ended the kiss with a light nibble to her lower lip. His hands left her breasts to grip the round cheeks of her bottom and lift the startled woman off the floor. Chloe yelped, wrapped her arms and legs around him. Sometimes his wiry strength astonished her. Walter smiled and carried the dismayed woman to the bed, gently lowered her onto the mattress. He gazed down at her for a moment. Gone was the gray nimbus from her hazel eyes, replaced with blue happiness. Chloe smiled up at him. "I love you, Walter."

"I love you, too." He kissed her.

Chloe started to undo her pants, but Walter took her hands and gently pinned them to either side of her head. "Let me."

"'Kay."

He unfastened the button, pulled down the zipper, then slowly slid her jeans down her legs, taking her underwear with them. When they reached her ankles Walter pulled off her shoes and socks, then slipped her pants off completely. He then removed the rest of his own clothes and couldn't help but blush a little at Chloe's intense stare; still self-conscious in spite of their familiarity with each other's bodies. Chloe expected him to join her on the bed, but instead he knelt and placed his hands on her knees to spread her legs apart.

Surprised, Chloe stammered, "Y-you don't have to--"

"I want to," he said quietly. Walter ran his hands over the incredibly soft skin of her inner thighs; her legs opened wider in response. He stared at her womanhood with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity, having never been comfortable with looking at this most intimate part of her before. He had expected to feel disgust, but instead he found it strangely alluring; the way the folds of her labia served to conceal and at the same time accentuate her feminine nature. He carefully parted the soft folds to reveal the glistening entrance to her core, and above it the innocuous little nub which he knew could bring her so much pleasure. Walter leaned in to taste her.

Chloe gasped, the muscles of her thighs twitched. Walter peered from the V of her legs. "Hurt you?"

"No," she giggled nervously, "Just caught me off guard. It's alright."

Reassured, Walter lowered his head once again.

Chloe moaned and squirmed as Walter experimented with lips and tongue. "B-better than alright."

Walter smiled. Encouraged by her reaction, he continued with greater confidence. He delved into her warm entrance to taste her distinctive flavor, flicked the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue, fastened his lips over it and began sucking. Chloe's moans turned into cries of ecstasy. Her clenched fists wadded the bedding and her back arched as waves of pleasure washed over her. Walter's own arousal grew as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Her cries and moans soon left him unable to hold back any longer. Chloe felt a sense of loss when his mouth withdrew, only to experience a greater pleasure as his manhood slid into her and he began to pump in and out of her with hard, deep thrusts. They were both so ready, so wet and hard and _eager_ for completion.

"Oh _god!_" Chloe all but screamed as her orgasm struck with the suddenness of an electric shock. Walter continued thrusting even as she came down from her high, his own climax fast approaching. Chloe matched his rhythm, raised her hips over and over to meet his thrusts. Their eyes locked; his blue gaze burned with intensity. Chloe was amazed to feel a familiar tingle start to build in her. _Again?_ Yes, again. Walter slammed into her a final time and Chloe's voice rose with his in joyous union. Then the moment slipped away, as it always must, and left only its echo behind.

Walter collapsed, exhausted, his weight a comfort to the equally tired woman beneath him. They lay like this for several minutes, bodies slippery with mingled sweat. After a while Walter managed to pant, "That…was…"

"Yeah," Chloe grinned, eyes closed, "'mazing what a little stress can do."

Walter nuzzled her slender neck. "More than a _little_," he murmured.

"Yeah," Chloe repeated in a more sober voice. She bit her lip. "I need to tell you something."

Walter lifted his head, looked into her worried eyes. He brushed the sweat-dampened hair from her furrowed brow. "What?"

She swallowed. "I'm…pregnant."

His expression didn't change. Chloe's eyes widened. "You knew?"

"Suspected."

Chloe touched his cheek, still red from where she'd slapped him moments ago. "Are you scared?" she asked, a tremor in her voice.

Walter nodded, lip trembling. He answered in a hoarse whisper, "Yes."

"Me too."

She kissed him, tasting herself on his lips, then tenderly cradled his head against her shoulder. They drew strength from their closeness even as the worries they'd held at bay with their intense lovemaking resurfaced. They understood then that whatever happened, however this dark period of time ended, they would face it together. There was no other choice; neither could survive without the other. Neither wanted to.

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_My Love is of a birth as rare_

_As 'tis, for object, strange and high;_

_It was begotten by Despair_

_Upon Impossibility…_

…_But Fate does iron wedges drive,_

_And always crowds itself betwixt._

_For Fate with jealous eye does see_

_Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;_

_Their union would her ruin be,_

_And her tyrannic power depose._

_(excerpts from "The Definition of Love" by Andrew Marvell)_


	9. The Leaving Place

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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His second frigid, lonely night alone. He huddled in a tight ball and shivered while outside unseen creatures roamed in search of little boys to eat. He couldn't remember ever being so hungry or thirsty. When early morning came he ventured out just long enough to lick the dew from the long grasses that surrounded his hiding place. Not nearly enough to slake his thirst, but he was far too frightened to go any farther._ He_ might be out there looking for him, and Mama wasn't there to protect him this time. Mama was probably with the angels now; he couldn't believe anyone could survive such a terrible beating.

His stomach snarled. _Fooood!_ Had to find something before he ended up looking like those kids on TV, with the twiggy arms and bloated tummies and huge eyes that made him feel guilty for having so much. Now he had nothing and he was scared. Was he going to die out here? Would he starve or get eaten by some big smelly animal? Would _he_ catch him? Precious water fell from gritty eyes. He didn't wanna die.

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Henry pulled off his hat, wadded it in his hands in frustration. Over twenty-four hours since the organized search began and nothing to show for it. Where the hell could Alvin be? Most had worked under the assumption that the boy had been abducted and either hidden somewhere (if alive) or buried. But what if whoever attacked the Harrisons hadn't, in fact, taken the child? What if little Alvin ran off? But if that were the case, why hadn't anyone seen him? Hunger and cold should have driven him from whatever hiding place he'd chosen, or he could have sought out a trusted neighbor for help. Unless he was too frightened to even do that. In which case, the question still stood, where was he?

_He might be dead_, the ugly thought surfaced, _Froze to death in the night._ No. Henry refused to believe that.

The sheriff chewed his lip in thought. Jubilation might have been a small town, but there were hundreds of places for a little boy to hide unnoticed. And as a lifelong resident, Henry himself knew all of them. So, which ones hadn't he checked yet? Someplace sheltered and relatively warm, considering how much the temperature dropped at night. Somewhere totally out of the way, hidden, where no one would think to look. A place doubtless known to everyone in Jubilation, but seldom spoke of…

And suddenly he knew.

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"Faahhh…"

Myra's head jerked up; she had dozed off in the chair beside the hospital bed, still clutching Olivia's hand. The pastor's wife gasped at the sight of the beaten woman's open eyes, the left one badly swollen. Olivia's fingers tightened around Myra's hand. "Fahh…"

"Oh, thank you, Jesus." Myra's free hand scrabbled for the call button. Moments later the nurse arrived, only to hurry off to page a doctor.

"Judi!" Myra shouted to her daughter, asleep on the couch. The girl snuffled awake. "Olivia's awake. Go get your daddy." The girl hurried out the door.

The room soon bustled with family and hospital staff. Olivia stared up at them, her hand waved about and her voice croaked through split and swollen lips.

"Where the hell is Fallon?" Lila snapped.

Vernon shook his head. "Judi and I have looked everywhere. We can't find him."

"His car isn't in the parking lot," Myra said as she reentered the room from her own search.

"_Faaah!"_

The cry brought all startled eyes to the bed where Olivia's flailing hand grabbed hold of a nurse's ink pen which hung around the young woman's neck on a string.

"Give her the pen." Lila retrieved a notepad from her pocket and brought it to the bed. She held it in front of the battered woman. "Go ahead, Livi. Tell us what you need."

The pen ran shakily over the page. Lila turned the notepad to her; her face went cold. "Vern."

Vernon approached the doctor's side, took the notepad, and read what his sister wrote. "Sweet Jesus…" He met Lila's gaze. "We have to tell Henry."

Lila nodded, grabbed the phone from the room's nightstand.

"Tell him what?" Myra asked. Her husband soberly handed her the notepad. Myra's hand covered her mouth. "No. It can't be."

In the bed, Olivia nodded feebly. It was. Vernon put a comforting arm around his wife who began to sob. "Oh, poor Alvin."

Judi peered around her mother to see the notepad in her hand. Four little words marred the clean paper in wobbly letters. Once she understood their meaning the girl's eyes grew wide.

Lila dialed the number for Jubilation's police station. Cecelia, the station's dispatcher and receptionist, picked up. "Jubilation Police. How may I direct your call?"

"Ceecee, it's Lila. I need to talk to Henry right away."

"Hiya, doc! 'Fraid Hank's still out with the search parties lookin' for Alvin. Could be anywhere."

"Well, track him down," Lila all but snapped, "It's important. Olivia Harrison's just woken up. She told us who attacked her."

Cecelia, who wasn't always quick on the draw, said, "Well, sure. Everybody knows it was that Rorschach guy--"

"It wasn't him."

"What? Then who--"

"Ceecee, I really don't have the time or the patience right now. Either find Hank or get one of his deputies on the phone. Now."

"A-alright," the young woman stammered, "Just a minute. Lemme see if I can get him on the radio."

Lila fidgeted, impatient.

Vernon approached her. "Lila, I need to go after Fallon. Try to reach him before he does something terrible. But we all rode here in Fallon's car."

The doctor nodded. "Craig's in the cafeteria, most likely. He'll give you a ride."

"Thank you." The pastor bade a hasty farewell to his family, then hurried out the door.

Cecelia's voice returned, "Sorry, doc. I couldn't reach him. But Dave Jessup just came in. You wanna talk to him?"

"Sure."

The gravelly tones of a lifelong smoker drifted over the phone line. "What's up, doc?" Dave had a simple sense of humor. He wasn't joking when Lila finished telling him what she'd learned. "Shit. Okay, I'll let Kyle know down at the Mayweather place, then see if I can find Hank."

"Thanks, Dave," Lila sighed. She hung up the phone a moment later, turned and met the fearful stare of her patient. "It'll be okay, Livi." It might've sounded more convincing had she believed it herself.

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Craig was more than willing to give Vernon Birdsong a ride once he learned what Olivia had revealed. He drove as fast as he dared at the risk of getting ticketed or causing an accident, but both men knew all too well that Fallon had a good head start.

"He always did have a temper," Craig muttered, "Kept him from thinking things through before acting. If he really believes it was Walter…" His hands tightened on the wheel.

Vernon sighed. "Not an hour ago I would have asked to join him, had I known what he was up to. I am ashamed to admit it."

Craig, always quick to console others, said to the older man, "It's understandable. Somebody hurts your sister, you wanna make sure it won't happen again."

"No," Vernon turned his flinty gaze on the burly man, "It was not about protecting Olivia. It was about revenge, as it is with Fallon. Hard and bloody vengeance." He turned his attention to the road ahead, much to Craig's silent relief. "I can only pray we reach him in time. Jubilation doesn't need a murder on its conscience."

"Yeah." Craig put a little more pressure on the gas.

The sun kissed the horizon as they finally drove into town. Craig pulled into the Harrisons' driveway, killed the engine. He and Vernon got out. Fallon's car was nowhere in sight, but the yellow police tape--so rarely used in this town--had been torn away from the open door and flapped loosely in the cold breeze.

"Looks like we just missed him."

Vernon nodded soberly. The two men stepped through the open door. A large, dark stain marred the beige carpet. They gave it a wide berth. Craig headed for the back of the house while Vernon went into the kitchen. The pastor lifted the lid on the kitchen's trashcan. The damning item lay at the very top. He picked it up.

Craig appeared at the entryway. "Shotgun's gone."

Vernon nodded, held up the object. The burly schoolteacher shook his head. "Goddamn it." He grimaced at his choice of words. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I think it was appropriate to the circumstances." The item dropped back into the trash. _Clink._ "He'll be heading for the Mayweather place, if he isn't already there."

Craig nodded. "Right. Let's go."

They hurried out, closed the door behind them, shutting in the dreadful sights.

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Many small towns had their own unique traditions, some so old their origins were long forgotten.

Sometime in Jubilation's early history someone made an interesting discovery: beneath the ancient oak--where generations of children played and where as a child Chloe had kissed a boy named Henry for the first time--a natural cave had formed due to erosion and the reinforced strength of the oak tree's roots. Over the years the walls of this little cave were carefully shored up with planks of wood to ensure its stability, for it served a very special purpose to the townspeople. Whenever someone suffered an emotional loss, be it a death in the family or the ending of a close relationship, they would carry a memento into the little cave and leave it there. A symbolic way of saying goodbye to the past and starting anew. They called it the Leaving Place.

Henry approached the stately oak; behind him trailed the members of his search team, which included Zane Dobbins, his father. As they neared their destination, Henry motioned them to stop. He unclipped his flashlight from its holster, removed his gun belt, handed it to his father with a nod. He didn't want to frighten Alvin, if he was there. The sheriff continued on alone. He rounded the small rise atop which the tree stood. Long grasses left to grow for years on end formed a natural curtain that draped over the side of the rise. Henry knelt, parted the curtain with his hands. A small square opening, reinforced with wooden boards, gaped blackly. Henry flicked on his flashlight.

"Alvin," the sheriff called in a level voice, "You in there?" He thought he heard a faint rustle. "It's Henry Dobbins, Alvin. I'm coming in, okay?" He crawled through the tight opening, the flashlight beam sliced the darkness. Inside, the natural domed ceiling was just high enough for the tall man to sit upright, provided he didn't mind a little dirt in his hair. All around him, tier upon tier of narrow ledges held relics of the past: tin soldiers, rag dolls, shoes, a baseball mitt, photographs, an empty urn, and other items so ancient they were unrecognizable with rot. Yet nothing was ever removed or discarded from this place, only carefully pushed aside. Henry's eyes were drawn to the spot where as a child, after his dog Flip died, he'd left her old collar; beside it lay the wedding ring from his failed marriage. Childhood and adulthood, side by side.

Alvin huddled between a plastic truck and a rusted model train, clothes filthy, hair matted with dried grass and twigs. Henry offered a reassuring smile. "Hey, kiddo. Everybody's been worried about you. The whole town's been out looking."

"Is my daddy out there?" the child asked meekly.

Henry shook his head. "Sorry. He's in Lovettesville with your mom."

Alvin tensed. "Mama?"

"She's in the hospital."

"Sh-she ain't dead?" The fearful hope in the boy's eyes broke the sheriff's heart.

"No, sweetheart."

Alvin sobbed. Henry slowly crawled over to him, the flashlight beam skewing wildly, until he was at the boy's side. He draped a long arm around his narrow shoulders, held him close. "It's okay, Alvin. You'll be okay."

He waited patiently for the child's sobs to quiet. He dreaded the necessity of the next question. "Alvin, I need you to do something for me. You won't like it, but I need to know."

The boy gazed up at the tall man with solemn eyes. "What?"

"I need you to tell me what happened. Who hurt your mama?"

Alvin's eyes lowered, his little chin trembled.

"You won't get in trouble for telling me," Henry soothed, "I promise."

"You won't let him get me?"

"I won't let anyone hurt you, Alvin. I'll keep you safe."

"'Cause you're the sheriff." The boy reached out, touched the badge pinned to Henry's jacket. "It's your job t'keep people safe, Mama said."

"That's right." Henry smiled. "You ready to tell me?"

Alvin nodded. "Okay."

He told.

Afterwards, when the two emerged from the cave, Zane approached his son and told him Dave Jessup had called over the radio. Henry nodded as his father recited the message, then passed the child over. "Take him back to the station."

The search team hurried to their parked vehicles. All headed for the police station, save Sheriff Dobbins's, which turned in the direction of the Mayweather place.

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No matter how many times he raked, there were always more leaves the next day. Closest comparison the city-born Walter could think of was the loose papers which constantly blew through the streets. Nobody ever bothered to clean _them_ up.

Walter wielded the rake with increasing familiarity. An errant breeze threatened to scatter the impressive pile he'd accumulated. Could build another tree from all this, he mused. Chloe, wearing her aunt's floral-print gardening gloves, stuffed the brown leaves into a black garbage bag. While Lila was out of town, Chloe saw little point in going to work; should there be an emergency everyone knew they could call on her.

Kyle helpfully lugged the already filled bags out to the curb for the trash service to pick up in the morning. From inside the house came the faint sound of the phone's ring. The deputy had just set his burden down when Elsie leaned through the door and shouted, "Kyle! Phone!"

Kyle jogged across the yard, up the porch steps, and through the door. Walter and Chloe continued with the yard work. Minutes later, a worried deputy returned. "Just got a call from the station. Fallon Harrison lit out from the Lovettesville hospital. Might be comin' after you, Walter."

Walter's expression showed no change, but Chloe visibly tensed at the news. "Fallon still have that shotgun?" she asked.

Kyle nodded. "Think it'd be best if we all went inside."

Walter stowed the rake in the shed, then followed the others toward the house. Elsie stood just outside the door, her brow furrowed, while Nixon lay in a furry puddle at his usual spot on the porch.

Fallon emerged from the darkening wooded area that had originally been planted as a windbreak and allowed to grow wild. His weapon pointed at the redhead's retreating back. He had parked his car a couple of miles away so as not to alert his quarry of his approach. Now he was only yards away from meting retribution.

Elsie gasped, pointed a trembling hand. "Walt!"

Walter, Chloe, and Kyle spun to face the intruder. Walter stared down the fathomless depths of the shotgun's barrel. He lifted his gaze to his executioner's cold, dead expression, his bloodshot eyes swollen from too many tears and too little sleep. Walter knew that face; had worn it himself for many years. It was the face of vengeance.

Kyle yanked his gun from its holster, pointed it at the armed man. None was more surprised than he at how steady his aim was. "Fallon, put the shotgun down."

Fallon ignored the young deputy. All his attention was on the man before him. "You destroyed my family," his voice was a dull monotone.

Walter slowly shook his head. "No."

"Don't you fucking lie to me!" Fallon snarled, suddenly, horribly enraged, "What'd you do to my son? _Where is he?_"

"Fallon, don't!" Chloe hurried towards the two men, uncertain what she could do, but determined to do _something_. But then the shotgun was pointed at her and she froze like a rabbit on a busy highway.

"No!" Walter shouted, lunged forward, "Not her! It's me you want!"

Fallon returned his aim to his original target. "Right."

"Fallon, for God's sake," Kyle implored, panic edging his voice, "Don't make me shoot you."

"Don't care what happens to me," Fallon rasped. His finger tightened on the trigger.

"Fallon, please!" Chloe sobbed, "He didn't hurt Olivia. He didn't take Alvin. It wasn't him!"

"_Shut up!_ You brought him here!" His body quaked with rage and grief. "It's as much your fault as his. He's a monster and you're his _whore!_ Neither one of you deserve to live!" Tears spilled down his cheeks, snot ran from his nose. Fallon shook so violently the others feared the weapon might go off by accident rather than intent.

On the porch, Nixon rose, growling. Lila hurried to grab the dog by the collar and hold him in place; she didn't want to risk the animal getting hurt, or worse, scaring Fallon into pulling that trigger and killing Walter.

Kyle's own aim began to waiver as uncertainty assailed him. He didn't know what to do to prevent what was sure to be a tragic end. But then the sound of approaching vehicles reached them and the deputy knew the problem was no longer his alone. Two cars pulled into the driveway. Henry Dobbins emerged from one, Vernon Birdsong and Craig Danvers the other. The three new arrivals took in the deadly tableau and approached with due caution.

Vernon spoke first, his resonant voice subdued. "Fallon, Olivia's awake."

This gave the grieving man pause. "Livi?"

"Yes, Fallon. She's awake and lucid. She remembers everything."

"And I've found Alvin. Alive," the sheriff added, equally somber, "He told me everything."

"Then you're here to arrest this bastard." Fallon's smile of vindication was a gruesome rictus. He raised the butt of the gun to his shoulder and steadied his aim. "Lemme save the taxpayers a few grand."

"No, Fallon," Henry said, quietly calm, "Walter didn't attack your family."

The man's grin faltered. "W-what?"

"It wasn't him." Now they all could see that what they had mistaken for calm was in fact sorrow. The faintest tremor ran through the sheriff's lips. "You were so distraught that night I just didn't see it."

Dread stabbed its icy fingers through Fallon's heart. Black shapes whorled in his mind, unfocused. "What're you saying?" he asked weakly.

"You fell off the wagon, Fallon," Henry swallowed a lump in his throat, "Fell hard. You had one of your blackouts."

"N-no…" The shapes began to take form, his treacherous mind assembling them like jigsaw pieces.

"You lost control. I don't think you even realized it was Olivia you were hurting."

Vernon nodded in mournful agreement. Those four little words Olivia had scribbled on the notepad: _Fallon. Drunk. Hurt me._

"_No! Nononono…"_ The shotgun's barrel dropped. Fallon's entire body seemed to slump as heart-wrenching sobs burst forth. The terrible memories he'd fought to suppress now ran freely through his mind. The mindless rage, the shadowy figures, the baseball bat. Unable to cope with the guilt, Fallon had clung desperately to the thought that Walter, the former vigilante and perpetrator of violence, had been the one to destroy his family. But now he was forced to face the truth, and it was more than he could live with. Fallon lifted his head to look upon his friends and neighbors. His eyes met those of his brother-in-law, equally filled with anguish. "Vern," Fallon choked, "Tell Alvin I'm sorry." Without warning, he lifted the shotgun, tucked the barrel under his chin. His thumb tensed on the trigger.

"_Fallon, NO!"_ Henry, Vernon, Craig lunged forward, but knew they'd never reach him in time. Chloe screamed in horror.

A blur of motion collided with the suicidal man, knocked the gun's barrel away from his head. The shotgun blast echoed through the encroaching night; a branch in a nearby tree shattered and rained splinters. The men froze in shock at the sight before them. Walter grappled with the larger man. His elbow connected with Fallon's chin, Fallon collapsed to the ground, his shotgun clutched in Walter's hands. Walter backed away, but the other man had lost the will to fight; he lay in a pathetic heap and wept in self-recrimination.

Chloe sobbed in relief and hurried to the redhead to wrap her arms tightly around him. Kyle shakily holstered his gun and went to take the shotgun from Walter, whose grip was not so steady now that the adrenaline began to wear off. On the porch Elsie pressed a hand to her chest to make sure her heart still beat, while Nixon peered fearfully from under the porch glider where he'd ducked at the sound of the shotgun blast.

Vernon knelt beside his fallen brother-in-law, placed a hand on his trembling shoulder. "It'll be alright," he soothed, "We'll get you some help. We'll take care of you."

Henry looked from the sorrowful man to the embracing couple. Blue eyes met his gaze. Only now, after the worst had passed, did Walter's typically blank visage slip away to reveal the fear and sadness he'd experienced. And something else. Something the sheriff never expected; empathy.

Henry found himself approaching the couple. "Y'know," he said in a thoughtful tone, "from what I read about Rorschach, I got the impression he would've let Fallon kill himself."

Walter soothed the crying woman in his arms and returned the sheriff's level gaze. "I'm not Rorschach."

Henry nodded. "I'm starting to believe that."

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Fallon was taken to the Lovettesville Hospital's psychiatric ward and put on suicide watch. He and his wife each had months, perhaps years of healing ahead of them. Olivia continued to show signs of improvement, though it was a gradual process and she would continue to suffer physical disability for the remainder of her life. Once she was able to speak, the first thing Olivia said was that she forgave her husband, though she would never fully trust him again.

Alvin went to live with Vernon's family while his parents recovered. It would be weeks before the boy could sleep the night through without the bad dreams to disturb him; months before he smiled. Though he visited his mother often during her long recovery, the boy refused to see his father. Alvin was afraid of his daddy.

Once the truth was known, the people of Jubilation experienced a mixture of horrified shock and deep remorse. Someone they all knew had committed a terrible act, while the man everyone had blamed and even wished to harm was proven innocent. Those involved in the mob that had nearly overrun Elsie's home felt especially shameful. Ironically, that shame resulted in their shunning Walter more than ever; how do you apologize for hating someone so forcefully, after all? They hardly knew where to begin, so they kept their distance instead. Walter pretended the isolation didn't bother him, but Chloe knew better. It seemed nothing he could do would ever bring acceptance from the town.

Then one evening, weeks later, Vernon Birdsong appeared at their door.

"May I come in?" he asked a surprised Chloe, who had answered his knock.

"Um, alright." She stepped aside to let him pass. Chloe had changed from her scrubs to sweatpants and a long shirt which, though loose, still revealed the slight bulge of her growing belly which could easily be passed off as mere weight gain.

She led the pastor to the living room where Elsie was watching TV. She looked up at the unexpected visitor. "Hi, Vern."

"Hello, Elsie. Is Walter here?"

The old woman smirked. "Yeah. Poor guy's actually trying his hand at cooking dinner. Already ruined two pots of spaghetti." She turned in her seat. "Walt! Somebody's here to see you!"

Walter stepped out of the kitchen with an air of distracted frustration. Upon seeing Vernon, his expression became wary. Chloe moved to his side, took his hand and squeezed it in reassurance.

"Good evening, Walter," said Vernon.

Walter nodded.

"I have come on behalf of the parish to invite you to the next Sunday social, if you are willing."

The redhead blinked, exchanged a surprised glance with the woman beside him. "Er…alright."

Vernon nodded, then hesitated. "I'm also here on a more personal matter."

Walter braced himself.

"I've come to apologize. I allowed my…concerns…over your past influence my behavior towards you." Vernon sighed, shifted his shoulders; uncomfortable with his confession. "As a Christian and leader of my church I should have been more welcoming. Instead I was judgmental, and it pains me to have behaved in such a shameful manner. Had I reminded myself that Chloe was always a sound judge of character I would not have acted so unfairly, nor allowed others to do so. Had I not been so distracted by my fear of you," he swallowed, "I might have suspected Fallon's alcoholic lapse to begin with. I can only say now that I am sorry and hope that you can forgive me."

Walter found himself at a loss for words. He'd never expected this, least of all from the proud Vernon Birdsong. "Thank you," he managed. The words seemed so inadequate. Then something else occurred to him and he asked, almost timid, "How's Alvin?"

The pastor relaxed slightly, a sad smile tugged at his lips. "Adjusting. I'm afraid it will be some time before he's his old self." He left the words _if ever_ unspoken. "He's asked about you. You seem to have made an impression with him."

Walter nodded. "Tell him I'll see him Sunday."

"Alright." Vernon bade farewell to the household, then politely showed himself out.

Chloe shook her head. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"You and me both," Elsie agreed. She frowned, sniffed the air. "Something burning?"

"Aw, hell." Walter ran back into the kitchen.

Chloe and Elsie looked at each other and tried not to laugh when the sounds of banging pots and muffled curses reached their ears.

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**A/N:** Well, the worst is past. But it ain't over yet, folks!


	10. Your way begins on the other side

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetical works of Jalal Al-Din Rumi. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Sunday rolled around. Walter and Chloe and Elsie went to the community center, once again in Lila's car. The townspeople did their best to treat Walter kindly this time, mainly due to the respected Vernon Birdsong's personal and very public greeting. Yet despite the improved atmosphere, Walter still felt out of place. He made an effort to socialize, mainly for Chloe's sake, but soon retreated to the playground where he watched the youngsters romp and frolic. Alvin was there, clambering up the jungle gym once again, only this time his older cousin Judi accompanied him up the metal lattice. Walter smiled as he watched the boy reach the very top of the structure and send out a victorious whoop. Then, with Judi's encouragement, Alvin negotiated his way back to the ground at a more sedate pace than he'd climbed up. The boy noticed his audience when both sneakered feet touched the gravel.

"Walter!" Alvin scrambled over to him, kicking up pebbles. "Didya see me? I got all th' way up! An' I wasn't even scared!" Behind him Judi rolled her eyes; the heck he wasn't.

Walter smiled. "Yes, I saw. Very brave."

The child beamed. "Wanna play tetherball?"

Walter hesitated; he'd never really played much as a child. In school when kids picked teams for kickball, he'd always been overlooked even though his red hair stood out like a beacon. The other kids went so far as to pick the gawky boy with the thick glasses who tripped over his own feet rather than the creepy little weirdo. It wasn't long before Walter stopped trying to join in any schoolyard games. Instead, he sat in the swings or wandered the perimeter of the playground like a prisoner taking exercise. Once he was placed in the Lillian Charlton Home for Problem Children, his social standing remained unchanged.

"I…don't know how."

"It's easy," Alvin said, unperturbed. He grabbed the startled adult's hand and dragged him towards a metal pole where a yellow ball swung from the end of a rope. "You wanna make the ball wrap all the way around th' pole an' also stop me from doing it."

"That's it?" It didn't sound like much fun to Walter.

"Yeah! You take this side." Alvin trotted to the opposite side of the pole and grabbed the ball. "Serve!" His little fist punched the ball, sent it swinging around to Walter's side where the redhead caught it in both hands.

"You're not s'posed to catch it!" the boy laughed, "Ya gotta hit it!"

Walter stared down at the yellow orb in his grasp. "Oh." He balanced it in his left hand, cuffed it lightly with his fist to send it back around. Alvin immediately punched with all his munchkin strength, roaring mightily as he did so. Walter almost laughed at the child's enthusiasm. His own fist connected with the ball, but not before it had wrapped around the pole once. So the game continued, the two friendly rivals smacking the tetherball back and forth until Alvin finally succeeded in coiling the rope all the way around. The child whooped and leaped about in victory while Walter looked on with a smile.

Discovering an adult willing to participate in their antics, the rest of the children soon recruited him into games of four-square, tag, Red Rover, red light-green light, and anything else they could think of. The hours slipped away, unnoticed, and then it was time for the parents to herd their youngsters home for lunch.

"Awww!" was the children's collective whine. Walter experienced a sense of disappointment as well; the morning spent on the playground was the first time he hadn't felt like a weed in a field of lilies. He watched the droves of youngsters plod towards their beckoning parents, some of whom glanced warily at the man whose presence among them still brought out feelings of ambivalence. Walter shifted his gaze and was startled to see Myra Birdsong standing among the milling families with a thoughtful smile on her face. He looked away, uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

"There you are!" a familiar bellow reached his ears. Walter experienced some relief at the familiar burly figure that approached him. "Chloe's looking all over for you," Craig chided, then slung a good natured arm around the smaller man's shoulders. Walter realized to his dismay that the physical contact didn't bother him that much. He let the cheerful Paul Bunyan look-alike guide him back inside the community center where Chloe waited in a group of people that included Henry Dobbins, the "Hens" Deb Blascoe and Bess Everton, and a swarthy middle-aged man who looked as if he belonged in a country club. Walter and Henry exchanged tentative nods.

"Hey, Walt, I don't think I've introduced you to my friend," Craig hesitated a fraction of a second on the word _friend_. He indicated the yuppie. "Adam, meet Chloe's fiancé Walter. Walt, this is Adam Leonetti. He's in real estate."

Walter didn't see how the man's occupation was relevant.

Adam thrust out a manicured hand. "Pleased to meet you, Walt."

He reluctantly shook the man's hand. Why was everyone calling him Walt all of a sudden?

"I woulda introduced you guys sooner, but Walt was busy entertaining the munchkins," Craig grinned.

Chloe looked at the uneasy redhead and smiled. "That where you've been all morning?"

Walter nodded.

Bess Everton snorted. "Better hold on tight ta this one, Chlo. Not many fellas wanna spend more than five minutes with their _own_ kids, let alone everybody else's."

Walter threw Chloe an imploring look.

"Well, we'd better get going," Chloe said, earning the redhead's eternal gratitude. The couple bade farewell to the group and made their escape. "Wasn't so bad this time, was it?" Chloe asked.

Walter shook his head. "Not so bad." He felt her arm encircle his, their shoulders bumped companionably.

Outside, the parking lot buzzed with last-minute conversations. Elsie and Lila chatted with Myra while little Alvin swung back and forth like a tetherball while clutching his aunt's hand. The child beamed at the approaching couple. Walter smiled at the boy.

"Ready to go?" Lila asked. They nodded. "'Kay then. Let's try to beat the rush. Bye, Myra."

"Goodbye," the pastor's wife smiled.

"Bye, Walter!" Alvin waved frantically.

"Bye, Alvin."

More than a few kids shouted farewell to the redhead in passing. Elsie smirked. "Looks like you made a few friends this time."

Walter responded with a noncommittal shrug.

On the drive home he leaned towards Chloe to ask in a low voice, "Craig and Adam, are they…?"

"Yeah." Her eyes searched his expression. "Does that bother you?"

Walter frowned in thought. "Don't know."

Chloe shrugged, smiled crookedly. "Least you're keeping an open mind."

He wished he knew if that was a good thing.

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Walter blinked, confused. Where the hell was he? The dark surroundings offered little in the way of clues. He ogled the stacks of boxes, the neglected bits of furniture. The air smelled of dust and mothballs. The attic? How did--

Fear stabbed its icy fingers into him; Walter was sleepwalking again. It was a condition he'd suffered as a child, though he hadn't known what it was at the time. The first incident was the night he'd walked in on his mother while she was with one of her johns. Those times she brought men to their shitty apartment Walter was forbidden from leaving his room. But that night he'd arisen from his bed, locked in a forgotten dream, and wandered out into the hall, perhaps drawn by the strange noises emanating from his mother's open door. All he remembered was one moment he was snug in bed, the next he was staring at his mother and the man, bodies entwined and writhing grotesquely. The man had not appreciated the unexpected audience and stormed out, shoving the frightened boy rudely aside. Then his mother, who'd never been all that affectionate but had never before resorted to anything more serious than a swat on the bottom, slapped him hard across the face for the first time and screamed about how she should have aborted her pregnancy rather than allowing a burden such as he to live. After that she tied him to his bed each night. Once the Home took Walter in and they discovered his condition, the attendants made sure to lock his room at night, though once he'd settled into some form of stability the incidences of sleepwalking ended.

Now it was happening again. For how long? Did Elsie know about this? Did Chloe? Why wouldn't they tell him?

_Because they didn't want you to worry._ Yes, that sounded like them.

Walter shivered in the cold storage space. He turned slowly until he saw the open door by the dim glow of the moon's light which filtered through the windows of the house. He trod a careful path through the maze of all-but-forgotten possessions until he emerged onto the narrow landing. He shut the door behind him, descended the creaky stairs, hoping no one was awake to hear him. He hurried to the bathroom, flicked on the light which stabbed into his night-adjusted eyes. Once he'd blinked the dancing spots away he looked at himself in the medicine cabinet's mirrored face. Dust mottled his skin, cobwebs clung to his hair. Walter sighed, turned the sink's tap and washed off the mess. The evidence of his nocturnal wandering dealt with, he turned off the water, switched off the light, then left the bathroom and tiptoed back to the bedroom.

Chloe lay on her side, sound asleep, the bedcovers rumpled at her feet. Walter must have kicked them down there. He guiltily pulled them over the slumbering woman who sighed and shifted deeper into the cocoon of warmth. He stared at her for a long while, a tightness in his throat. Then, with a stealth born of years of hunting the back alleys of New York, Walter changed into his jeans and a heavy sweater, pulled on a pair of woolen socks, then exited the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. He crept down the stairs, put on his shoes, retrieved his coat from the rack by the front door and put it on. Walter stepped out into the early winter night.

The first snow had yet to fall, but a thick rime frost coated every surface. The trees glimmered in the moonlight, the grass crackled beneath Walter's feet, his breath clouded. He felt as if he walked through a fairy realm. Hands buried deep in his coat pockets, Walter followed the long driveway to the empty road. He picked a direction at random and followed the shimmering asphalt, his heavy footfalls and steady breaths the only sounds in the cold night. Everything else slept, even the wind. The almost full moon cast its pale glow over the crystalline landscape. Walter saw its face as open-mouthed, as if it couldn't think of anything to say. The few houses here on the edge of town loomed over the frozen hedges and lifeless lawns, unmarred by internal light, occupants snug in their beds like sensible people.

Walter continued his aimless journey until the cold numbed his face, his ears, his nose. He took no notice of this minor discomfort. Rorschach spent many a night roaming the streets; not hunting, just thinking. It was the closest the vigilante ever came to meditation. For Walter, alone on this country road, it was much the same. The steady rhythm of his footsteps lulled his frantic mind, helped him organize his thoughts.

He knew what had brought on tonight's bout of somnambulation. It was the discussion at lunch on Sunday, after the social, while the three of them sat around the table. Chloe brought up a subject which Walter knew was coming and dreaded.

"I talked to Vernon about the wedding. He pretty much implied, with the baby on the way, the sooner we tie the knot the better," and she'd grinned, for her aunt hadn't been told of her pregnancy until that moment.

"You're _pregnant?_ When the hell were you gonna tell me?" the older woman snapped. Her expression vacillated between elation and resentment.

"Jeez, Els. I thought you'd have figured it out by now."

Elsie finally settled on elation; she could always chew her niece out later. "When's it due?"

"August." Chloe reached across the circular table to grasp Walter's hand. A proud smile graced her features. "That's why we need to set a date soon, before it starts to show. Do you know how tough it is to find a maternity wedding gown?"

The two women laughed. Walter mustered a smile, though his heart weighed heavy in his chest. The feeling only deepened when, days later, Chloe had her first sonogram. Again the elation he couldn't share; again the forced smile. Lila ran the device over Chloe's belly and pointed out the shadowy blobs that were, according to the doctor, the fetus's anatomy. Chloe had ooh-ed and beamed at the grainy images while Walter only stared in feigned comprehension and mounting guilt. He didn't know how to tell her. Didn't know how to explain without sounding heartless. Walter faced impending fatherhood and all he felt was…nothing. No excitement, no anticipation, not even fear. Nothing. Walter felt not a shred of emotion for Chloe's baby. _His _baby; he had no doubt of that. But it didn't _matter_ to him, and for that he felt like a total shit.

The feeling of disconnection extended to the wedding. Walter didn't _care_ if he married Chloe. His love for her was as strong as always, but at the same time he felt as if he were drifting away from her. He had no _purpose _to his life. Rorschach had had a purpose, unhealthy though it was. Rorschach never fretted over the reason of his existence; the all-consuming Cause for Retribution was enough for him. But Walter? What did he have? What was he supposed to _do_ here in the sleepy rural town of Jubilation? All he knew was smashing skulls and mending women's ball gowns; the former activity was out of the question, and he never enjoyed the latter. So what was left to him? What was he supposed to do with the rest of his life? Walter never planned on living beyond Rorschach; never planned anything, to be honest. He felt…wrong. Lately he found himself wishing Dr. Manhattan had vaporized him instead of teleporting him back to what remained of New York, or that Fallon has succeeded in executing him. Horrible, shameful imaginings. He contemplated turning himself in. He thought about packing his bags and walking away; just abandon it all. Abandon her.

A dull ache built in his legs, the soles of his feet. How far had he wandered? Not far enough, he decided. He walked on. There were no more houses, just empty fields and huddled thickets. If he walked long enough he might actually reach Lovettesville. He could hitch a ride to somewhere else; someplace big and crowded. He could just disappear.

Movement ahead diverted him from those seductive thoughts. Mere yards ahead something emerged from a stand of trees and stepped out onto the road. At first his city-born mind interpreted the newcomer as a dog. Had Nixon followed him? But…no dog could be so massive. Walter froze in his tracks. His mouth hung open, speechless as the watching moon. Two nocturnal travelers regarded each other in awe, neither daring to move.

Walter never imagined he'd ever see something so beautiful. He was so close he could see its breath mist the air before its shiny black nose; could hear the faint _click-click _of its dainty hooves as it shifted its weight. Huge liquid eyes gazed upon him with wary innocence. Walter had never been so still, in body or mind. He didn't think about the purity of this moment, only let the experience wash over him, let his mind absorb every nuance and sensation with exquisite clarity. He could not have said how long he stood there; forever or an instant. Then the deer, sensing no threat from this silent creature, turned and trotted gracefully to the opposite side of the road. It disappeared into the thick underbrush, a faint rustle and it was gone as if it had never been.

Walter finally dared to breathe. Eyes, dry from exposure to the cold air, blinked rapidly. A sound escaped him; a faint laugh of wonderment. He knew he would never tell of this moment. To put it into words would mar its perfection. He would carry the memory in secret for always.

The silent man gazed up at the clear winter sky--diamond flecks scattered over a black velvet shroud, white and blue and fiery red. He turned and headed for home.

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_Inside this new love, die._

_Your way begins on the other side._

_Become the sky._

_Take an axe to the prison wall._

_Escape._

_Walk out like someone suddenly born into color._

_Do it now._

_You're covered with thick cloud._

_Slide out the side. Die,_

_and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign _

_that you've died._

_Your old life was a frantic running _

_from silence._

_The speechless full moon _

_comes out now._

_(Quietness, by Jalal Al-Din Rumi, translated from the Persian by Coleman Barks)_


	11. A Good Father, A Good Name

**A/N:** Longest chappie yet in this story. Not much action, I'm afraid, but hopefully with enough substance to satisfy you all. Read on!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Wakefulness elbowed past her dreams. Chloe stirred; a faint snort escaped the confines of her nose. Hazel eyes blinked open, pupils contracted in the morning light. An image before them swam into focus; they awaited her sleep-addled brain's delayed interpretation. Walter, it informed them. He knelt beside the bed, sweater-clad arms folded atop the mattress. His stubble-rough chin rested atop his arms. His blue eyes were bright and clear, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile tinged with amusement.

"Good morning."

"G' mornin'," she mumbled. Her hand slowly rubbed the remaining sleep from her eyes, cleared away the sandman's grit. She blinked owlishly at her audience and frowned. "How long've you been up?"

"Awhile." He leaned towards her.

Chloe quickly brought her fingers to her lips. "Got morning breath."

Walter gently brushed her hand out of the way. "Don't care." His kiss was deep and breathy. Chloe was powerless against it. Her mouth curved in a smile against his. She rolled onto her back; Walter climbed onto the bed to prolong the kiss. When it finally ended he continued to plant smaller kisses here and there on her face. Chloe giggled. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing." Walter smiled down at her. She couldn't remember the last time he'd looked so relaxed, almost carefree. Lately, Chloe had worried about him. The tiny flickers of expression that flitted across his face told her something weighed heavy on his mind. They occurred most often whenever she discussed their future; their wedding and impending parenthood. But even when those subjects didn't come up, the unhappiness remained in his eyes. Chloe tried more than once to get him to confide in her, but every time she asked what was wrong Walter's only response was a dull "Nothing." This time, though, his noncommittal answer held a lighter tone. He looked as if some internal conflict had been resolved, or at least allayed. Chloe's relief made her lightheaded; her troubles weighed on her more than she'd realized.

She touched his face; fingertips rasped against his perpetual five o'clock shadow. She slowly traced the contours of his jaw line, explored the softness of his lips. The air expelled from his nose caressed the backs of her fingers. Chloe's other hand ran through his red hair. She stared into his ocean-blue eyes. A tightness gripped her throat; she felt tears well in her eyes. Damn hormones. She hadn't experienced mood swings like this since puberty.

Walter's brow furrowed in concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Chloe sniffed and put on a brave face, "Just, y'know, pregnancy. Rampant chemicals and whatnot. I'm fine."

Walter lowered his head until their foreheads touched. "You sure?" It wasn't like him to press the issue; she must not have been very convincing.

"I…" Oh, hell. "I'm sorry. I should've been more careful," she felt her face start to crumple, "I know you don't really want…this." Her hand rested on her already thickening middle.

He pulled away from her. Gone was the smile, the light in his ocean eyes. Her words struck home. Chloe felt a stab of guilt. She'd ruined the moment.

"I don't know if I want this or not," he admitted softly, "Any of it. But I want to try."

Chloe sniffed and wiped her eyes; not grit this time, but salty water. "Spoiled the mood, didn't I?"

Walter's tender smile told her more than spoken words. He bent down and kissed her again, lips and tongue sweetly caressing. Chloe's arms encircled his shoulders, pulled him close. Walter's hands crept under her flannel pajama top.

A series of rapid knocks at the door jarred them from their interlude. "Rise and shine, you two," Elsie's voice commanded, "Just 'cause it's Saturday doesn't mean you can lay about. You still got that meeting with Vernon this morning."

"Goddammit," Chloe groaned.

"What?"

"In a minute!" she snapped.

"Alright! Don't get your hormones in a twist." Elsie's footsteps retreated.

Walter rolled onto his side, his hand still under her flannel top, against her belly. Chloe turned her head to meet his gaze. "You up for this?"

"Yeah."

She sighed. "Not sure I am."

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After they dressed and picked at their breakfast--neither one of them had much of an appetite--the two of them got into Chloe's car and drove for the Birdsongs' home. Chloe bought the car the week before; a used but still reliable compact. With the onset of winter, and the fact that pregnant women shouldn't ride bicycles, Chloe purchased the vehicle despite her aunt's mild disapproval. Lazy or not, she was damned if she was going to pedal through the snow with her womb jutting over the bike saddle. Besides, Chloe liked to listen to the radio while on the road.

AC/DC's _Hells Bells_ wailed over the speakers. Walter grimaced and reached for the dial only to have his hand slapped away. "Driver picks the station," Chloe proclaimed with a smug grin, "And _you_ don't have a license." Walter sulked.

The Birdsongs' modest brick ranch circled into view. Normally when he discussed upcoming nuptials with prospective couples Vernon met with them at the church, but since neither Chloe nor Walter attended mass the pastor felt they might be more comfortable at his house instead. Myra greeted them at the door and showed them to the living room. Vernon rose from his easy chair to welcome the couple.

"Chloe, Walter," he shook each of their hands, "Please sit. I promise to make this as painless as possible." His smile was calculated to put them at ease, as was the melodious tone of his deep voice. Vernon had lots of practice reassuring nervous couples. Chloe and Walter took the sofa while Vernon resumed his easy chair. Myra made an unobtrusive exit to give them their privacy.

"Have you both settled on a date?"

The couple shared a look. Chloe answered, "Well, we've pretty much agreed that the soonest you can fit us in would be best. We're not looking to have a fancy show with all the frills, so there shouldn't be that much planning."

Vernon smiled indulgently; how little they knew. "I take it this is due mainly to your impending motherhood."

Walter blinked. Did everybody know?

"Mostly," Chloe admitted with a wry smirk, "But also we really don't wanna make a big fuss over the ceremony."

"Are you comfortable with holding it in the church? I won't be offended if you'd prefer to be married in the courthouse," Vernon assured them.

"We have a courthouse?" Walter blurted. His face reddened at the others' obvious amusement.

"A small one," Vernon explained, mentally noting the use of the word _we_, "It shares a building with the post office, in fact."

Walter stopped himself just in time from further embarrassment. _We have a post office, too?_

"Well, we haven't really talked about it," Chloe said, "But for myself, I wouldn't mind a church wedding."

Vernon nodded, turned to the prospective groom. "And you, Walter?"

"Uh…"

The pastor held up both hands in a placating gesture. "You don't have to decide right away. There's still plenty of time." He folded his hands across his knees, expression somber. "There are, however, some unusual complications in this situation, as I'm sure you are quite aware. At the moment, Walter, you have no identity in Jubilation. In order to get your marriage license, or even remain in this town as a contributing resident, you will have to acquire documentation. Birth certificate, social security number, and such. Now, I have already brought the subject up with all the relevant parties. They assure me it won't be too difficult to set you up with a new identity."

Chloe made a sound of bewildered amusement. "Wasn't expecting to start a conspiracy."

Walter looked worried. "Could get everyone into trouble if found out. Aiding and abetting a fugitive. Prison time."

"Believe me, we are all aware of the risk," Vernon sighed, "But we believe the authorities are not likely to be searching all that hard for you, considering your last known whereabouts." The three of them sobered at the oblique reference to the still recovering city of New York. "Truthfully," the pastor continued, "I myself can't think of a better way to hide than in plain sight in rural America."

His logic did little to ease the former vigilante's anxiety. He didn't want these people to come to harm because of him.

Sensing his misgivings, Chloe grasped the redhead's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be okay."

Walter sighed, nodded. "What do I have to do?"

Vernon fixed him with a level stare. "Trust us."

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Alma Jessup had been the town clerk for as long as anyone could remember. She was one of those old ladies who made people think of aged mahogany; hard and uncompromising as stone, all excess dried away. Her gossamer-thin hair was worn in a tight schoolmarm bun, not a solitary loose strand to be found. Her dresses were high-necked and dismally modest. Her steely gaze could erode bricks. Though well into her golden years, no one dared suggest she retire from her post. No one wanted the blame for releasing her into the hapless populous.

Jubilation's Hall of Records was Alma's domain, which she ran with fanatical exactitude. Everything filed and categorized to the decibel, date, and letter. Some documents in her care dated back to the founding of the town (which some speculated she'd witnessed in person). Those who gained access to her domain described the feel of the place as a mausoleum; meticulously labeled cabinets stacked floor to ceiling with not a hair's breadth of space wasted, the towering ceiling which seemed to absorb sound, the faint odor of wood pulp and, inexplicably, cloves. The moment Vernon led them through the ancient oak doors Walter's memory conjured up the library at the Charlton Home which was run by a fascist hag who, should any poor soul speak above the barest whisper, had a fondness for whacking their knuckles with a thick wooden ruler. So vivid was the recollection that when he first laid eyes on the dour clerk Walter immediately hid his hands behind his back.

Even the pastor was uncharacteristically meek. "Mrs. Jessup, if it pleases you, these are the two I spoke of the other day."

Walter doubted _anything _pleased her. Alma's disapproving glower made him want to apologize, though for what he didn't know.

"So," the syllable dropped from the old woman's mouth like a lump of granite, "this is the maniac who ran loose in the city murdering delinquents." Her gimlet eyes took his measure, found him wanting. "How many people did you send to the boneyard, boy?"

The question caught Walter off guard. "Er…" He looked to his companions for help, but neither one of them met his eyes. Even Chloe wouldn't risk pissing "Agony Alma" off just to protect his sorry hide. "M-maybe forty?"

"Hmph." Alma's grunt conveyed a sense of _That's the best you could do?_ "Proud of ourselves, are we?"

"No, ma'am," Walter was quick to respond, certain that any moment she'd whip out her trusty ruler. Instead, the clerk abruptly spun on one sensible heel and marched off into the depths of the Hall of Records. The others scurried to keep up. Alma led them through the labyrinthine hall without a word, only the heavy _clomp-clomp _of her shoes and the softer footfalls of her reluctant hangers-on broke the tomblike silence. Minutes later she halted with an abruptness that nearly sent the others careening into her. She opened a cabinet seemingly at random and extracted a pair of documents, edges yellowed with age. "Found what you were looking for," she announced as if bestowing a royal pardon, "Birth and death certificates for a male Caucasian, red hair. Born March Eighteenth, Nineteen-Forty-One, died December Twelfth, Nineteen Forty-Three. Says here he had brown eyes, but that's easy enough to fix…"

It was eerie, knowing Walter was about to slip into this other person's life. Someone a year younger than him who'd died before he ever had a chance to experience the world. Walter felt as if taking his name would be like carrying a ghost on his shoulders. Alma Jessup would make the necessary alterations to the birth certificate and see to the disposal of the death certificate. In this way Walter would gain a name, a history, a social security number. He would be a fully-fledged citizen of Jubilation.

"There's just one problem," she said in a tone that suggested it was somehow Walter's fault, "It's Jedidiah Charleson's boy."

"Oh, no," Vernon groaned. The normally imperturbable pastor's reaction worried Chloe and Walter more than the clerk's words.

"Who's Jedidiah Charleson?" Chloe asked. She thought she knew everyone in town.

Vernon looked at her in surprise. "Don't you remember? He lives in that ramshackle house on Galloway."

"You mean Jed the Juiced?" The skin of her face darkened in embarrassment at her slipup. It was an unfavorable nickname the local kids gave the notorious drunk who shouted all the time and threw empty bottles at anyone he perceived as a trespasser. "I, uh, didn't know he had a family."

"'Had' is right," Alma snorted, "Got wounded in the war, married his nurse and brought her back here. Their son was born six months later." The old woman managed to squeeze a tad more disapproval into her dour expression as she conveyed that bit of scandalous trivia. "A couple of years later Jedidiah was driving his family home on an icy road, lost control of his vehicle, and crashed. The boy died instantly. Not long after that Mrs. Charleson left. Went back to her hometown in Seattle, I believe."

"And he's been drinking himself to death ever since," Vernon sighed.

"But he isn't dead yet," Alma waved the documents for emphasis, "Which means I cannot in good conscience do anything with these until you get his permission."

Chloe grimaced. "Isn't there anybody else's name we could use?"

"For your red-haired white man?" Alma quirked a cynical eyebrow. "No."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jessup," the pastor nodded respectfully, "We'll show ourselves out."

Outside, the first stray flakes of snow drifted down from the overcast sky. The mismatched trio bundled their overcoats.

"Guess the next stop's on Galloway," said Chloe without enthusiasm.

Vernon shook his head. "First, we need to see Deb Blascoe."

The woman frowned. "Why?"

"Jed is her older brother."

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They were fortunate to arrive at the diner before the lunchtime rush, otherwise Deb wouldn't have agreed to leave the counter area to speak with them. The four of them sat around a little square table, Deb with her ever-present cigarette scissored between her fingers and a mug of coffee in front of her. A cloud of foul-smelling smoke was expelled from her jaded lungs towards the ceiling where it hovered above her head, a swirling Rorschach pattern. An errant breeze from the circulating air tore the delicate apparition away.

"So, what's this about?"

Vernon explained the situation as delicately as possible, careful to keep his voice low in case the sharp-eared waitresses should try to eavesdrop. Gossip was the lifeblood of the food-service industry, after all, and the diner's staff always trolled for fresh rumors to sink their teeth into.

Deb's normally wry cynicism morphed into a grimmer expression. "You want me to talk my brother into giving his dead baby's name to _him?_" She jabbed a pointed, lacquered nail at the silent redhead. While her tone carried no malice, Deb saw little point in sugarcoating the truth of Walter's past. He was a wanted criminal, after all. A killer. "I don't need ta ask him. I can tell you right now what his answer'd be. An empty bottle to the noggin and a hearty 'Fuck off.'"

"We wouldn't be asking if there were any other choice," Vernon spoke with considerable sincerity, "If Walter is to live openly he will need a new past, a new identity."

"Please, Deb," Chloe implored, "At least try?"

The aging waitress sighed, still doubtful. "'Kay, I'll try. But I ain't promising anything."

The three conspirators visibly relaxed.

"One condition, though," again, a stab of that lancet fingernail, "If by some miracle he says yes, I get to bake the wedding cake."

Chloe smiled. "Deal."

"Alright then." She drained the last of her coffee, stubbed the cigarette out in the little tin ashtray on the table, and stood. "Lemme grab my coat and we can head out."

Chloe's little car felt pretty crowded with four people in it. Out of diplomacy, she switched the radio to a milder station and turned the volume down to a subtle background noise. The snowfall was heavier; the windshield wipers swish-swished. Walter looked out the side window at the passing houses. Already the neighborhood kids swarmed their yards to frolic among the dancing white flakes which accumulated gradually on the cold ground and any other immobile surface. It all looked so pretty, like powdered sugar from a giant sieve. Snow in New York didn't look like that; once it touched down it transformed from pure white to dismal gray. Kids didn't play in that crap. Its only purpose was to inconvenience everyone and preserve the frozen corpses of the vagrants who'd died in the night from exposure. As Rorschach, he used to hate snow. But then, he mused, Rorschach hated everything.

Chloe took a right at the next intersection, where the sign read GALLOWAY ST. "There it is," she announced minutes later and pulled up to the curb.

"Ramshackle" was too generous a label for the pathetic structure that was Jedediah Charleson's house. Long ribbons of tattered, possibly white, paint clung tenaciously to the warped boards that made up the building's walls. The bare branches of a long dead tree overhung the patchy roof. Clumps of browned crabgrass dotted the otherwise bare front yard. It was as if the tenant's misery permeated his surroundings. Even the birds and squirrels detoured around the place rather than risk a hurled missile from the perpetually cranky drunk. Only Deb's presence was tolerated. Once or twice a week she would drop by to make sure her brother hadn't dropped dead and strongarmed him into ingesting something other than booze. She paid the house utilities, bought him groceries, and generally did the best she could for her self-destructive brother.

Deb led the others down the cracked walkway to the front door. Walter and Chloe trailed behind the older woman, hands clasped as they sought comfort in each other's firm grip. Vernon walked beside them in brooding silence. Deb's fist pounded on the door. "Jed! It's Deb! Open up!"

Nothing, not even a flicker of movement at the window. Deb knocked again. When no response was forthcoming she sighed and opened the door. The others followed her into the dark interior. The squalor was far worse inside; empty whiskey bottles and dirty glasses littered every surface along with empty pizza boxes and dishes encrusted with ancient food stains. Furnishings consisted of a threadbare couch with a sagging middle, a scuffed coffee table buried under more clutter, and a TV set atop an old end table with tinfoil on its rabbit-ears. A miasma of decay and neglect assaulted the visitors' noses; they grimaced in disgust.

"Wait here." Deb marched to another open door and disappeared from sight.

Walter looked at the woman beside him. "You alright?"

Chloe waved her free hand in front of her face. "Smell's makin' me queasy."

"Perhaps you should wait in the car," Vernon suggested.

"No. I'll be okay." She squeezed Walter's hand in reassurance. Though worried for her health, Walter was grateful for her solidarity. The day spent at this conspiracy only increased his doubts. He no longer entertained thoughts of running off, but he still wondered if his staying was best for her. He'd once told Chloe that nothing good ever lasted for him, and it now seemed this lifelong curse might hold true. Sooner or later, the sick little voice in his mind whispered, Chloe would decide a life with him just wasn't worth the risk. When that happened he wouldn't need to run away; she would drive him off to protect herself and the baby inside her. And she would be right to do so, Walter knew. The knowledge would do little to ease his pain, however, should this come to pass.

Voices rose from the unseen room and broke into his troubled reverie, for which he was grateful. Deb stepped back into the (for want of a better name) living room dragging a disheveled man behind her. Evidently woken from a drunken stupor, the stick-thin figure ogled the three intruders with bloodshot eyes. Rumpled and stained clothes hung from his rail-thin frame. The sallow skin of his face sagged in tired folds. Jedidiah scowled at his sister. "Th' fuck didya bring them for?"

"I told you, Jed," Deb snapped, "They got a favor to ask you. A big one."

"Hunh." Her brother's eyes rested on Vernon. An ugly smirk graced his murky features. "The holy-rollin' Vernon fuckin' Birdsong needs ta ask _me_ a favor. Wonder what it could possibly be. C'mon, rev, enlighten me."

Vernon kept is face neutral. "I'm certain your sister has informed you of Chloe Whitfield's engagement."

Jed snorted. "To th' masked loony? Yeah, she told. Woman never shuts up."

Deb's silence belied his words. The skin around her eyes twitched, her only reaction to the hurtful tone.

"This him?" The drunk's gaze swiveled to the silent redhead. For a second Walter saw a flicker in the man's expression, quickly suppressed by his habitual scorn. "Kinda scrawny for a 'superhero,' aincha?"

"Jed…" Vernon tried to get the man's attention back on him.

"This, uh, _favor_ got somethin' ta do with him?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't he ask me his damn self?"

His sister groaned in impatience, "For Christ's sake, Jed--"

The drunk abruptly walked over to the coffee table, extracted from its cluttered surface a more-or-less clean glass and a bottle more than half full. He popped off the cap, poured a generous measure of brown liquid into the glass, gulped it down. "Ain't unreasonable, expectin' a man ta do his own askin'."

Walter sighed, opened his mouth to speak.

"Rest of ya get th' fuck out," Jed interjected, waving the empty glass towards the door, "Doesn't concern you. And I wanna talk ta this loony in private."

There were uneasy looks and shifting feet, except for Walter who remained motionless, his face a empty of expression.

"C'mon," Jed wheedled, "Tough guy like him's got nothin' ta worry about from me, right?"

"Go on," Walter spoke, voice subdued. He looked at Chloe, whose brow furrowed in worry, and offered a faint smile.

Chloe sighed. "Okay. Could use the fresh air, anyway," she added in a whisper. She gave his hand a final squeeze before she released it. The others followed her out with obvious reluctance. The front door creaked shut.

Jedidiah poured himself another drink, then held up the bottle. "Cocktail?"

Walter shook his head, wondering why the man bothered with a glass.

"You a fuckin' mute? Haven't said two words since ya got here."

"No."

Jed sneered and emptied his glass with a toss of his head. He refilled the glass yet again. "Spite of my efforts, I still got a few workin' marbles. I know what you want. Only hadda take one look at ya, hear yer situation, ta figure it out." He turned his bloodshot, yet horribly alert eyes on the silent man before him. "You want my son's name."

Walter nodded, face still carefully blank. "Yes."

The drunk snorted. "'Yes,'" he mocked, "Like talkin' to a fuckin' robot." He slugged back another drink. "Gonna wipe the slate clean. That the plan? Tie the knot with that pretty lady outside, pop out a few kids, get a dog an' a nice little house. The American fuckin' Dream."

Jed abruptly plonked the bottle and empty glass onto the table, turned and headed for the door he'd originally come through. "C'mere for a sec. Wantcha t'see somethin'."

Walter followed him into the bedroom. A rumpled queen sized bed dominated the room, sheets rumpled and stale-smelling. But that wasn't what gave the redhead pause; it was the wall. Amid the filth of Jed's failed life, the only clean objects hung opposite the foot of the bed where the drunk could gaze upon them before he fell asleep. Dozens of framed photographs, all with one thing in common: Jedidiah's son. In some the boy was an infant, in some a toddler. In some his mother or father, or both, posed with him, while in others he stood alone. Walter stared at the array of images. The child's unruly red hair was pale in the black-and-white photos. In the ones where he was older, his cheeks and petite nose were dusted with freckles. Walter never had many pictures taken of himself as a child, but the few he'd seen showed him how uncannily similar he and this departed boy were.

Jedidiah's voice startled him. "His name was Hiram," he snorted, "Wife's idea. Always hated it myself. Truth is, I never woulda married her if I hadn't knocked her up. Only thing that kept us together was the kid. Couldn't believe how much I loved him. Both of us did."

He turned his head to gaze upon Walter. His gray too-knowing eyes bored into the former vigilante. "He woulda been a better man than me. But then I went and killed him. Had a coupla drinks and drove on an icy road. Been tryin' to even the score ever since."

Walter stared at the wall. Elsie kept a wall like this at home; pictures of friends and family that went back generations. In the center of it all was Chloe's photo of herself and Byron, the husband she'd outlived. But where Elsie's was a collage of memories, Jed's was a shrine to his tragedy. Walter turned and met the older man's eyes. He could no longer view him with disgust, only sadness. It showed in his eyes.

Jed's expression hardened. "Don't you fuckin' look at me like that," he growled, low and dangerous, "Don't you dare."

Walter looked away.

"Wanted you t'see whose name yer stealin'. It's a good name, clean as the fallin' snow." Jed leaned in close, reeking of alcohol and old sweat, and spoke in a cold whisper, "Better than a man like you'll ever deserve."

"I know," Walter said, equally quiet. Again, he met the other's eyes so he could see the truth in them.

Jedidiah nodded, turned and shuffled out into the living room. Walter followed. He watched the drunk retrieve his bottle and refill the glass; watched him swallow the poison down. A sad, broken man.

"Get out."

Walter left.

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_Some time later…_

He stared at the laminated card with the unflattering picture in the corner. _Charleson, Hiram W._, it read, _DOB 04-18-1941_. His driver's license.

Chloe, seated beside him on the couch, peered over his shoulder. "Least it looks better than your mug shot," she grinned, "Plus, you'll be able to pick the radio station now that you can drive the car."

Walter ran his finger under the last name. "My father's name was Charles."

Chloe was surprised; Walter rarely spoke of his past. "What was he like?"

"Don't know. Left after I was born."

"I'm sorry," she said, placing a hand on his arm.

Walter leaned back into the couch's soft embrace and looked into the woman's hazel eyes. "Imagined all kinds of things about him. That he was a war hero. That he worked for the President. _Believed_ the stories after a while. For years."

His eyes lowered. He licked his lips, troubled with his thoughts. Chloe waited patiently until he met her gaze once again.

"If he really was as good as I imagined, he would have stayed. Even if he didn't love my mother, he could have done the right thing. Could have married her, taken care of us. Like Jed did when he got his wife pregnant. He _loved_ his son." A faint tremor shook his chin, his blue eyes shone with moisture. "My father never cared about me."

Chloe lifted her hands to cradle his face. She planted a kiss on his brow. "I care about you, Walter. Or whatever your name is."

He smiled at the weak joke even as he wiped his eyes. "I want to be a good father."

"You will be," she said without a trace of doubt.

"And I want to be a good husband to you."

Chloe smiled. "Well, we'll see soon enough."

"Soon enough," Walter agreed. He put his arm around her, pulled her against him. Chloe rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly.


	12. Sharing Our Burdens

**A/N:** There's a pretty intense love scene later in this chapter. Consider yourselves warned.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Snow piled in deep drifts, a desert of crystalline flakes. It muted sound, reflected the sun to burn vulnerable retinas. This was the season of sleds and snow forts, angels and men. Angels, imprinted like nuclear shadows on the powdered ground; men, portly and spindle-limbed, smiling to the bitter end.

Walter leaned his weight into the snow shovel's handle. The broad, curved blade plowed through the easily crumbled blanket, made a prolonged scraping noise against the unseen walkway. Walter had no idea shoveling snow was such intensive labor. It fell from the sky so lightly, yet accumulated to such a degree that the stuff weighed a ton. He sweated beneath his thick parka, felt new blisters form on his hands despite the callouses and heavy gloves. He raised the laden shovel with a grunt and dumped its clean white contents to the side. _Fump._ He stood the shovel on its edge and leaned on the handle, his heavy breaths puffed from his mouth in lazy clouds. Walter turned his head to view his progress, then wished he hadn't. Not even halfway through. He let out a sound between a groan and a sigh, then got back to work.

From the kitchen window Chloe watched his progress with a sympathetic smile. It had been a heavy snowfall during the night. The radio broadcast school closings all over the place, much to the local kids' delight. Chloe's little car was a freestanding hill in the equally concealed driveway; it brought to mind pictures of ancient burial mounds. Needless to say, she'd called Lila to let the doctor know she probably wouldn't make it to work today. Then Walter had insisted on clearing some of the mess away.

Chloe smirked as a laden overhanging tree branch suddenly dumped its burden just behind the laboring man. Walter turned, took in the fresh powder on the previously cleared path. His shoulders sagged.

Elsie joined her niece at the window, a steaming mug of cocoa in her hands. "You'd think he'd never cleared his own walkway before."

Chloe looked at the older woman with a get-serious expression. "Els, he's a New Yorker. The only New Yorkers who have their own walkways are the ones who can afford to hire someone _else_ to clear it."

"Huh. Guess he never knew how good he had it." Elsie took a sip from her mug. "You're gonna have to tell him sooner or later, y'know."

"Yeah," Chloe sighed, "But I just know it's an argument waiting to happen."

"But if you don't say anything he'll resent being left out. It's how their minds work."

The younger woman quirked an eyebrow. "'Their minds'?"

"_Men's_. What'd you think I meant?" Elsie took her niece's arm. "Now come on back to the table. You still need to look at the swatches."

Chloe rolled her eyes and followed her aunt to the breakfast nook. Bits of fabric littered the tabletop; every conceivable shade of blue. Not even Chloe, who adored the color, realized there were so many different shades. "I don't even know why I should have bridesmaids anyway," she grumbled as she took a seat, "We just want a simple wedding. Byron and I didn't have bridesmaids at our wedding."

"That's because you and Byron eloped," Elsie chided, "And the town _still_ hasn't forgiven you for that."

"Why is my marriage any business of theirs?"

"You two are planning to live here, right?" Elsie raised her eyebrows for emphasis. "Then you're gonna have to let them get involved, at least a little bit. Doesn't have to be anything lavish."

"That's a relief." Chloe held up two swatches, one labeled "Aqua," the other "Pacific." They looked exactly the same to her. Bridesmaids, for god's sake. She didn't even have any close girlfriends. Who was she supposed to ask? And what about Walter? Who was he going to ask to be his best man? He was a homebody. The only people he'd really hit it off with were still in grammar school.

"Well?" Elsie prompted, interrupting the other woman's brooding.

Chloe stared at the expensive rags. Hell. She picked one at random and tossed it to her aunt. "That one."

Elsie read the label. "'Cerulean Sky'?"

"Sure." Whatever.

Elsie made a note in the "wedding book," a three-ring binder which contained every detail of her niece's upcoming nuptials. "Alrighty. Now, about the reception--"

"I really don't want it held in the civic center," Chloe interrupted, brow furrowed, "I don't wanna encourage the whole town to show up."

"They will anyway." Elsie shrugged. "Might as well let 'em in out of the cold."

Chloe sighed. _She's right, damn her._ "So, what about it?"

"You still need to decide what to serve: chicken, beef, or fish. Also, any ideas on the hors d'oervres would be helpful"

Chloe was tempted to suggest they throw everything into a huge trough, since the guests--which she didn't want showing up in any case--were going to stuff their faces with free food like a bunch of pigs anyway. Instead, she reined in her recalcitrant tongue. "Why don't we wait for Walter to add in his two cents?"

"Okay." Her aunt turned the page in the notebook. "Flowers. Jesse Laurent says he can get them at cost from his cousin's greenhouse. Just needs to know what kinds you want."

"Bluebells," she responded without hesitation, "and baby's breath."

Elsie smirked. "I'm sure the Hens will appreciate the visual pun." She scribbled it down. "Oh, and Deb wants to know if Walter will be having a groom's cake."

"No!" Chloe could just imagine it; a white oval dotted with black blotches. Deb Blascoe's humor was notoriously tasteless. "And make sure the wedding cake isn't red velvet, okay? I _hate_ that stuff."

"Yes, dear." She'd only told her aunt three times.

The sound of the front door opening interrupted the discussion. Chloe rose from her seat and hurried into the living room, grateful for the distraction.

Walter let the door swing shut behind him. Already the heat of the house's interior began to melt the snow which clung to his legs up to the knees, creating a twin set of puddles around his boots. He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into a pocket of his coat, removed his sunglasses and placed them on the little shelf which held the various sets of house keys, unzipped his coat. Chloe approached as he sat on the bench by the door to remove his wet boots.

"Looks like you survived in one piece." She grinned.

Walter glanced up at her, his face ruddy. "Can't feel my toes."

Chloe laughed sympathetically. "I'll go toss a coupla logs on the fire." She walked back into the living room, to the black woodstove which stood a couple of yards to the right of the TV stand. She slipped her hand into an old potholder, grasped the handle of the stove's door, and pulled it open. Orange light danced across her features. Her eyes watered from the sudden blast of heat. From the woodbox beside her she selected a couple of logs, tossed them in, then used the poker from the stand to nudge them into position. Satisfied, Chloe slammed the door shut. The modest-sized woodburner radiated enough heat to warm the entire house quite comfortably and was especially vital during winter blackouts which often occurred after the nastier ice storms or blizzards.

Walter stepped into view, his outdoor garments removed. He stood in his sweater and thick trousers, the legs of which were stained dark with snowmelt below the knees. He sighed in relief as the stove bathed him in delicious heat, wiggled the toes of his woolen-socked feet as numbness faded into pins-and-needles of circulating blood. And to think he'd scoffed at the idea of a primitive woodstove! But as the winter progressed the device quickly endeared itself to him. Plus, he rather liked the scent of burning wood. Walter rubbed his hands together, held them towards the stove's black surface. His damp clothes began to steam.

"Walter?"

He turned his head to look at Chloe. Her brown skin was flushed from the radiated heat. Strands of hair, come loose from her ponytail, framed her face. The skin around Walter's eyes relaxes and the corners of his mouth upturned. _She looks so pretty._

"There's something I need to tell you about," she said, eyebrows curved in a faintly worried expression.

Walter gently brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "What?"

"Um…did you hear about the reparation payments? The government's handing them out to any New Yorkers who lost their homes in the attack."

Walter shook his head. He hadn't been keeping up with current events, mainly because every time he saw or heard Veidt's name--which came up often--he felt the urge to smash something.

"It's supposed to be enough money to help the survivors get back on their feet," Chloe explained, "Put them in new homes, provide for their families until they can find work, pay off medical expenses, that kinda thing. I still qualify for it, even though we've already got a home here. It's quite a bit of money."

"And…?" He knew from her expression there was something else; something he wasn't going to like.

Chloe bit her lip. "Well, the thing is, a sizeable chunk of the money was donated by…Adrian Veidt."

His expression went cold, as she'd known it would. But knowing didn't make the experience any less unpleasant.

"I got a form in the mail," she went on, forcing herself to meet his eyes, "asking me to fill it out if I decided to accept. I said yes. I'm gonna mail it off as soon as the snow's been cleared."

"No." The word fell heavily from his mouth. The rage boiled behind his arctic eyes.

"I'm not asking permission," Chloe said, her voice subdued, "I just thought you should know."

Walter's hands, loose at his sides, balled into fists. The muscles of his jaw twitched and writhed. "Taking blood money from a mass murderer," he snarled.

"Not blood money, Walter," Chloe disagreed, still quiet, "It's not a bribe to keep quiet about what we know. Veidt doesn't even know you're still alive, and he didn't know about me at all. The check's coming from the federal government, not him."

"Splitting hairs," he scoffed through gritted teeth, "Compromising your integrity for a handout. For tainted money. Like a whore." The second Walter uttered those terrible words he wished he could take them back. But words, once spoken, could never be unsaid. The hurt in Chloe's eyes tore at his heart.

Chloe used her responding flare of anger to push aside the sadness, let it harden her voice so it might penetrate the lump in her throat. "Goddamn you, we _need _that money! We're doing okay now, but what happens when the baby comes, and me the only one in this family with a steady job?" Chloe's voice rose as her control slipped and all her pent-up fears spilled from her in a rush. "I'm forty years old, Walter. The risk of birthing complications increase with the age of the mother. What if it's born premature? What if it has some kind of birth defect? What if I hemorrhage during labor? And even if everything's alright, something else could happen later on. The baby could get sick or hurt! My insurance won't pay for everything, Walter. How're we supposed to handle the medical bills on my salary? How do we pay for all the food and clothes and school supplies and college? Would you rather we end up on welfare for your principles? Fuck that! I care about our baby's future more than your sense of righteousness and if that means accepting money from a mass murderer, then that's what I'll do! I'll gladly make myself a whore if it means our baby won't have to struggle to make something of its life. And if you weren't so goddamned pig-headed you'd feel the same way!"

She turned away from Walter and stormed up the stairs to the second floor. Her turmoil made heavy thumps of her footfalls. Seconds later the bedroom door slammed shut.

Walter remained by the stove, stunned by the woman's outburst, his own anger forgotten. All too soon guilt reared its ugly head. He'd let the pain of his failure to stop Veidt get the better of him; let it cloud his emotions, overwhelm his reason. He'd taken out his enraged self-reproach on Chloe, who only had their child's interests at heart. She was only trying to be a good mother, and for that he'd called her a whore. Bile rose in his throat. Walter took a step towards the stairs.

"Don't. Give her a chance to cool off first."

Startled, Walter's head whipped around towards the kitchen. Elsie stood in the doorway, wedding book clutched to her chest, her expression unreadable. "Hell of a thing. People think hate's brutal, but there's nothing in this world more vicious than a fight between people who love each other."

Walter swallowed. "My fault."

"Damn right it is." Now there was no mistaking the simmering rage in her tone. "What're you gonna do about it? You gonna sulk, or are you gonna man up and ask her forgiveness?"

Eyes downcast and welled with tears, the redhead's chin trembled. Hopeless. It was hopeless. "I…"

Elsie sighed, her expression softened. She walked up to the despondent man and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Walter, speaking as a woman who was married, I can tell you this won't be your last fight with Chloe. There'll be lots of them over the years, some of them worse than this one, if you can believe it," her lips curved in a somber smile, "It's what happens _after_ the fight that tells you whether the marriage will last. Not the fight itself."

Walter stared at her wretchedly. "I called her a--"

"Yes, I heard," Elsie interrupted in a flat voice. She sighed, patted his shoulder. "Give it about half an hour, then go on and make your apology. Leave your dignity at the door." She walked away, leaving the redhead to his brooding.

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Chloe stood at the bedroom window and looked out at the clean white world. Her arms were crossed, one hand unconsciously rubbed her belly. Her eyes were red and puffy; she'd spent a good twenty minutes soaking her pillow with her tears until her sinuses throbbed and her throat felt shredded. The pain from Walter's harsh words was still a raw wound. She wondered if it would ever subside.

Behind her came the sound of the door opening and then clicking shut, the soft tread of wool-clad feet. Chloe didn't bother to turn; she knew who it was. She could see his dim reflection in the windowpane, overlapped by her own. A moment of hesitation, then the feel of two strong, slender hands on her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Walter murmured, voice unsteady with emotion, "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

Chloe shut her stinging eyes, bowed her head, bud didn't move away from him. This gave Walter some meager hope.

"You were right," he went on, "I haven't done anything to help with the baby. Never considered how this has affected you. Never tried to talk with you about it. Was so preoccupied with my own fears I didn't think about how scared _you_ must be."

"I _am _scared," Chloe whispered, her throat too painful for speech, "I'm so scared of losing the baby. And I'm scared of losing you because of the money. I…I just didn't know what else to do." She sniffed. "I don't want you to end up taking a job that you'll hate, 'cause I know you'd hate anything involving too many people. I'm afraid you think my taking the money means I don't trust you to be a good father, but I _do_ trust you. Earning money isn't what makes a good parent, Walter. I know you'll be a good parent." She was almost babbling now, she was so upset. "Please don't be mad at me."

Walter's arms encircled her. "Shh. Don't cry. Don't be sad. I'm not mad at you, Chloe. I was never mad at you." He held her as she was wracked with fresh sobs. Their sounds broke his heart. Warm tears spilled down Walter's own cheeks. "I love you. I'll always love you, no matter what."

"I love you," Chloe echoed. Her sobs gradually subsided. She leaned her weight against the man behind her. Her bleary eyes stared out through the window. So pretty, like a Christmas card. So pure. Until you stepped outside and felt the bitter cold.

Chloe glanced at the sky. "Think it's gonna snow again," she muttered absently.

Walter sighed. "Just finished the walkway."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Meant what I said," she told him, calmer, "I'm okay with you not taking a job. Can't really imagine you at a nine-to-five, anyway."

"Used to keeping my own hours," he agreed, relieved beyond words that things seemed alright between them, despite the hurt he'd caused.

They stood together in silence for several minutes, Chloe's back against Walter's front, his arms snug around her waist, both gazing out into the white.

"You should think about who to ask to be your best man," Chloe said out of the blue.

Walter blinked, caught off guard by the change in subject. "Why?"

"Because I have to pick a maid of honor. It's only fair."

"Oh." A tremor ran through him, hysterical laughter hastily suppressed. One moment they're at each other's throats, the next consoling, and now they were chatting about wedding plans almost as if nothing more serious than a minor spat had occurred. It was ridiculous. "Um, couldn't you ask Elsie to be your maid of honor?"

"Of course not! She's giving me away."

"Can't she do both?"

Chloe thought about it. "Well…it would be one less gown."

"Gown?"

"Bridesmaids always wear matching gowns in the bride's chosen colors." Her tone suggested he must have been living in a cave not to know this vital fact. "Els and I just spent all morning looking through swatches." She snorted. "Half the colors looked the same to me. Finally just picked one at random. 'Cerulean Sky.'"

Walter frowned. "The hell is that?"

"Dunno. Just another shade of light blue to me." Chloe laughed softly. "Name sounds like a mixed drink. Y'know, White Russian, Screwdriver, Sex on the Beach…"

Warm air expelled from Walter's lungs tickled the back of her neck. The sound was suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Like to try that last one."

"You don't drink!"

He breathed into the shell of her ear. "Who said anything about drinking?"

Chloe giggled even as a warm tingle rose in her. "Something to look forward to this summer. Course by then I'll look like a beached whale."

"But the _prettiest_ beached whale." His hands roamed against her stomach, sending little electric shocks through her.

"You flatter me, sir."

"Where will flattery get me?"

"Well," she said coyly, "I don't know." Her hand reached behind her, slid down the flat plane of his stomach, past his waist, came to a rest on the hard bulge it encountered. "Where would you like to go?"

Walter emitted a low groan at her touch. It vibrated through his chest; Chloe felt it against her shoulder blades. His hands slid under her white sweater, found the clasp of her bra and unfastened it, then reached under the loosened garment to cup her soft breasts. Chloe arched into his touch, her breathing heavy with desire. Walter kissed the side of her neck, felt the flutter of her pulse against his lips. His hands left her breasts to tug her pants down. Chloe obligingly stepped out of them. She leaned forward, rested her hands against the windowsill. The sound of Walter's fly coming undone sent a thrill through her. She shifted her stance to spread her legs apart, leaned her weight against her arms. The sight of her in this position made Walter even harder. His pants dropped around his ankles. He pressed himself to her, hot and hard against the skin of her exposed bottom. Chloe ground against him, eliciting a moan from the redhead. He steadied her with one hand, grasped his erection with the other, guided it to her waiting heat. Warm wetness enveloped him. He grabbed her hips and thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside of her.

"Ohhh!" Chloe moaned. It felt different this way; the new position stimulated parts of her not normally reached when they made love face-to-face. She rocked against him, urging him on. Walter thrust in and out in a steady rhythm. He wanted the experience to last, but it was difficult. The sounds and sensations threatened to erode his self-control. His eyes wandered over the woman's back. Her ponytail had loosened, scattering long, graying tresses across her shoulders. His gaze traveled lower, to where the lower back emerged from the hem of her white sweater. He marveled at the contrast between the pale fabric and her dark skin. The flesh where the buttocks met the lower back dimpled. He let his eyes follow the curved mounds lower still, to where he and she connected. Walter saw himself sliding in and out of her. A small part of his mind recoiled at the sight in disgust. Another, stronger part found it so arousing he nearly came then and there. He closed his eyes.

Chloe grunted with each hard thrust. Her body rocked back to deepen the contact. Her head hung down, sweat dripped from her brow. She felt Walter's left hand move up to fondle her breast. His other hand traveled around her waist, brushed against her belly, glided down to the inverted V of her legs. Questing fingertips encountered her aroused nub. Chloe cried out, bucked wildly against him.

"Easy," Walter rasped, desperate not to lose his tenuous self-control.

Chloe gritted her teeth and made herself settle down. She followed his rhythm once again. Walter's fingers circled the little pearl of flesh. Chloe whimpered. And then it happened. She threw her head back and howled in release. Walter kept himself perfectly still as he felt her inner walls tighten around him. He breathed in slow, deep breaths. Soon, her climax passed. Chloe sagged against the window sill. She panted in exhaustion, eyes closed. When she had recovered slightly she realized Walter remained hard inside of her. She peered at him over her shoulder, surprised. "You didn't…?"

Walter smiled. He pulled out of her, gently turned her to face him. A light tug at the hem of her sweater was all the hint Chloe needed to raise her arms above her head so he could slip the garment off. She removed her loosened bra, let it drop to the floor. A smile began to grace her tired features. She reached out, pulled up the bottom edge of Walter's sweater. He lifted his arms as she had done and let the thick fabric slide off him. Chloe gazed in admiration at his lean yet muscular torso. She let her hands wander over his chest, hair rough against her palms. She leaned forward, took a nipple into her mouth. Walter tilted his head back and groaned. Chloe sucked on the hardened bead of flesh, nibbled gently with her teeth.

"God…"

Chloe released his nipple with a grin. "Amen." Her eyes wandered down until they encountered the fading scar on his abdomen; the wound that had driven Rorschach to barge through her bedroom window all those months ago (was it really only _months?_) and changed their lives forever. Her fingers lovingly traced its length.

"Chloe," Walter's voice was husky with desire, "Can't wait."

She nodded, brought her lips to his in a deep kiss. Walter's hands gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist. Still kissing, one arm around his neck, Chloe brought her other hand down to steady his still-hard member as he lowered her onto it. As he penetrated her once again Walter moved forward until her bottom rested on the edge of the windowsill. Chloe's arms went around his freckled shoulders in a loose grip; she trusted him not to let her fall. Their prolonged kiss continued as Walter's hips began to thrust. They moaned into each other's mouths. Sweat-slicked bodies writhed in shared pleasure. Chloe felt her second climax build in her. Her mouth parted from his as the small, quick noises of her nearing orgasm escaped. Walter somehow forced her legs wider apart to better plunge into her. His hips moved in rapid thrusts. The volume of Chloe's cries increased. Her fingers dug into his back; the pain they caused increased the intensity of his pleasure. Walter slammed into her a final time, adding his own voice to hers in a shared, explosive release.

Walter withdrew his softened member, slowly lowered Chloe until her feet touched the floor. They leaned against each other in a tired embrace, limbs trembling from exhaustion. Once they'd recovered enough to stand on their own the couple stumbled to the bathroom. Minutes later the two of them lay in the filled tub, back to front once again, Walter's arms wrapped around Chloe. He leaned his head back against the curve of the bathtub, eyes closed. The back of Chloe's head rested against his shoulder.

"Walter."

"Hmmm?"

"I won't accept the money if you really don't want me to."

He opened his eyes. "No. You've already made your decision. Should stand by it."

"Stick to my guns?" She smiled drowsily. "Then you're okay with it?"

Walter sighed. "Not really. But we'll need it later on, like you said." His arms tightened around her; he nuzzled her hair. "Sorry I called you…what I did," he whispered.

Chloe swallowed, no longer smiling. "I know you didn't mean it."

"But it still hurt you."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"I forgive you."

One of these days, he might do or say something that even Chloe would be unable to forgive. He could only be grateful it wasn't this day.

Chloe sniffed, wiped her eyes. "I hate this. My hormones are making me maudlin."

"Too much stress," Walter muttered, "Shouldn't hold it in. I didn't know you had so many fears."

"Yeah, well, you carry around so many of your own, I didn't wanna add to the burden."

"Don't want you to hide them from me. Have to be able to share these things, help each other cope. Why get married otherwise?"

Chloe shifted so she could peer up at him. "Goes both ways, you know. There's plenty of things you hold back from me. I see it in your eyes."

Perhaps it was this day after all. "I…don't think I can love this baby," his confession was uttered barely above a whisper. Walter met her steady gaze, deeply ashamed. "I tried. I care about it, but I think there's not enough love in me to give to both you and the baby."

Chloe's expression softened. She lifted a hand to caress his cheek. "I felt the same way at first."

Walter's eyes widened. "You did?"

She nodded. "Lots of expectant parents do, even if they won't admit it. I didn't feel any connection to this baby until that first sonogram, when I saw it's little heart beating." She smiled at the memory. "It's like falling in love, Walter. You can't control something like that. Just wait and let it happen on its own."

"What if it doesn't happen?"

"It will."

Walter could see her belief in this. "More faith?"

"Nothing wrong with a little faith, baby."

He smiled. "Been a while since you called me that."

"What?" she grinned, "Baby?"

He nodded. "Kinda missed it."

"Well, I'll try to say it more often, then." She turned away and settled against him again. "Thought of a way you can feel more involved with ours. Sort of a family tradition. If it's a boy, I name it, and if it's a girl, you name it."

Walter considered this. "You want me to decide on a name? How will that help?"

"Choosing a name's a big deal. He or she will be stuck with it forever…unless they end up on the run," she smirked and lightly elbowed him. "It'll become a part of their personality."

Walter frowned, unconvinced. "You sure?"

"Uhuh. Found a book that tells what people's names mean. It's uncanny how they match the person. Like yours," Chloe once again tilted her head to look at him, "Walter means 'powerful warrior.'"

The powerful warrior stared at her, amusement tugging the corners of his mouth. "What does Chloe mean?"

"Uh..." A flicker of embarrassment. "'Flowering' or 'young grass.' The name comes from the Greek goddess of grain," she added defensively, which only increased the redhead's amusement. "So it's not a hundred percent accurate. This doesn't invalidate my earlier point. Choosing a girl's name for the baby will help you feel more connected to it. You'll imagine the kind of person she'll be, the kind of person you want to help her become, and her name will reflect that."

Walter still had doubts--about a lot of things--but decided Chloe's suggestion couldn't hurt. _Long as it isn't called Sylvia_, he thought, mentally shuddering at his mother's name. "Hurm. Alright."

It made Chloe happy, at least.

They settled into contented silence. A few minutes later, Chloe lifted a hand from the water and stared critically at her pruny fingers. "We should get out. Water's getting cold."

"Five more minutes," Walter muttered.

Chloe laughed. "You said that twenty minutes ago!"

He pulled her close against him, nuzzled the side of her neck, planted a light kiss on her warm skin. "Just five more minutes," he coaxed.

Chloe sighed, feigning annoyance. "Fine. Five minutes." Smiling, she let her eyes drift shut.


	13. Perceptions

**A/N:** Oops! I skimmed through the GN and discovered a teensy mistake I made: I wrote in Chapter 11 that Walter's father left _after_ he was born, but the book says he left two months _before_ Walter's birth. So, for all you guys out there for whom such details matter, I apologize.

This is by far the longest chapter I've ever written! Practically a story in itself, I reckon. But it felt as if it wrote itself, and I truly enjoy the finished product. Course, you shouldn't let _my_ opinion influence you (I'm biased, after all). Read and decide for yourselves. ;-)

P.S. The poem quoted near the end was composed by Sir Phillip Sidney. I read it and felt it pretty much said it all for this couple.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetic works of Sir Phillip Sidney Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Chloe was surprised at how quickly the government check arrived; her last income tax refund hadn't been that prompt. "Federal Aid," it was called, though the times Adrian Veidt had mentioned it to the media he'd called it "reparations," which had a far more contrite ring to it. Perhaps it was his conscience talking?

"Sure are a lotta zeroes," Elsie remarked, peering over her niece's shoulder.

"It's not _that_ much."

The old woman snorted. "Compared to my bank account, it's a hell of a lot."

Chloe folded the valuable bit of paper, tucked it into her pocket. She would deposit it the next morning on her way to work. "Ready to go?"

"Just a sec." Elsie tottered off to the kitchen, returned with the dreaded three ring binder.

"C'mon, Els! Not today," Chloe's voice took a whining edge.

Her aunt wasn't having any of it. "We still need to discuss a few things with the Hens and Vernon. _And _you still need to decide on a maid of honor." She gave the younger woman a reproachful look.

Chloe sighed. "Fine, chat away about wedding details, if that's what you want. What do I care? I'm just the bride." This last statement was uttered with a smirk. "And I'll pick out a maid of honor when I'm good and ready." _So there._

"Alrighty then!" Elsie strode jauntily to the front door. Chloe rolled her eyes and followed.

Walter was already outside cleaning the last of the snow from Chloe's car with a long-handled broom. He saw the women approach, leaned the broom against the fence to put away later. The three of them piled into the vehicle and headed for the community center. Earlier that morning Arlo Henderson, mayor of Jubilation and owner of the town's only snowplow, had cleared all the roads in anticipation of the weekly social. As the compact car negotiated the salted pavement, Walter marveled at how picturesque the town looked with its heavy cover of snow, not to mention the Christmas decorations which hung from every electric pole and adorned every house front and yard. Whole families of snowmen stood in charcoal-grinning rows in front yards, abandoned sleds sat at the base of every hill and minor bump, and cardboard Santas flashed their rosy smiles from every window. The community center itself was festooned with multicolored lights and plastic reindeer captured mid-prance on the roof. And not a single advertisement in sight! Sometimes Walter felt as if he'd fallen into a Hallmark card.

Chloe parked the car and they all got out. Their boots crunched on the thin layer of snow that still coated the ground. From the unseen playground same the joyous shouts and shrieks of children at play.

If the couple thought the social would be an escape from endless wedding plans, they were sorely mistaken. Deb, Bess, and Myra intercepted Elsie and poor Chloe before they reached the door, each Hen laden with magazine clippings and recipes and suggestions with which to inundate the hapless bride. Walter edged stealthily around the chattering cluster for the center's door. Chloe glowered at the retreating redhead. _Traitor_, she mouthed. Walter shrugged; hordes of Knot-Tops were one thing, but what chance did he have against a group of ravening wedding planners? He retreated into the building.

"There he is!" A familiar heavy arm landed across his shoulders. Walter turned his head to gaze up at the grinning, bearded visage of Craig Danvers.

"Hello, Craig," he sighed. Already a small crowd began to gather around the two men; Adam Leonetti, Kyle Hauper, and Zane Dobbins among them.

"Got anything special in mind for your bachelor party?" Adam inquired.

Walter blinked. "Er…no."

"Dude! You gotta have a bachelor party!" young Kyle exclaimed, a typical twenty-something without his deputy uniform to stifle his behavior.

"Why?"

"You kidding?" another man, named Reg, spoke up, "It's supposed to be your farewell to the freedom of single life. Once you get hitched, man, that's it."

Walter saw little point. He was already living with Chloe and having a child with her, the marriage was just supposed to be a formality. Yet it seemed every person he encountered treated his upcoming nuptials as if they were the establishment of a new dynasty. Why were they all so much more excited about it than him? "I--"

"Shit, yeah!" someone else butted in, "Been forever since we had a stag party. Lotsa booze, lotsa pretty waitresses in those cute little skirts, maybe a stripper!"

_What!_ "Uh…"

"We could have it at Sharp's over in Lovettesville," Kyle suggested, "They just got one o' those new sing-along machines. What's it called? Carey-okey or something."

Zane shrugged. "Why not? After a few shots I'm bound ta start singin' anyway."

"But…" Walter could feel a headache coming on.

"Uh, say, Walt," Craig spoke, "I brought that thing you loaned me the other day, but it's still in the car. Wanna come out with me to get it?"

"Yes!" Walter gushed, relieved for the chance to escape. He quickly followed the larger man out into the parking lot. Along the way they passed the ambling crowd of Hens with Chloe trapped in the middle of them.

"Looked like you needed a breather," Craig chuckled, headed for his station wagon.

"Thank you." Already the redhead felt the tension ease. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and squinted in the bright daylight.

"So," Craig grinned at him, "you get Chloe a Christmas present yet?"

The tension returned with a vengeance. He hadn't even _thought_ about it! He looked at the burly schoolteacher in panic.

Craig laughed. "Easy, Walt. You'll give yourself an ulcer. C'mere." He opened the front passenger door of his vehicle, unlatched the glove compartment, withdrew a small object from inside. He really _had _left something in his car, but what, Walter couldn't guess. Craig leaned against the vehicle, rolled the object idly in his big hand. "Anybody tell you that before I met Adam I was engaged to a girl?"

Surprised, Walter shook his head.

"Her name was Heather." Craig smiled ruefully. "Mom hated that name; thought it was dumb for someone to name their daughter after a weed. She was a nice girl, though. We got along real well. Told myself that was enough. Thought I was doing the right thing, getting married, settling down." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Wouldn't have been fair for either of us. Funny thing, Heather understood the truth about me before I did. She was the one who broke off the engagement. Fact that I wasn't that upset only proved she made the right move. Heather's married now, got a couple of kids. We send each other cards on holidays."

He tossed the object to Walter, who caught it without a fumble even though he hadn't expected it. It was a black jewelry case. Walter opened it to see its dazzling contents nestled in black velvet.

"Heather gave me back the engagement ring," Craig explained, "Kept it all this time. Never sure why. Adam sure as hell isn't the type to wear a diamond ring, even if it fit."

Walter turned the case to let the sunlight play over the stone. "It's…nice," he said, unable to think of anything else.

"Think Chloe will like it?"

The redhead's gaze jerked to the other man. "What?"

"You two're engaged," Craig smirked, "Might as well make it look official."

Walter shook his head. "I-I can't accept this!"

"C'mon, you'll be doing me a favor. All it's done the last four years is sit on a shelf collecting dust. Plus, Adam hates the thing. He probably thinks it'll tempt me back into the straight life," he snorted.

"I don't think Chloe likes diamonds," Walter said, almost desperate to return the extravagant gift.

"No problem! Take it to a jeweler and have 'em switch out the stone. You can use the diamond itself for payment."

_Click._ The little box closed, concealing its glimmering treasure. Walter stared at Craig in wary confusion. "Why?"

Craig's features creased in a puzzled smile, as if the answer should be obvious. "'Cause we're friends, Walt."

_Do you know how _hard _it is, being your friend?_ Nite Owl's angry words echoed in Walter's memory. In all his wretched life, Walter only ever counted his former crime-fighting partner as a friend. He missed his fellow masked vigilante at that moment; wished he could be here to see how much Walter had changed.

Walter offered his hand to Craig, who shook it without hesitation. "Thank you."

Again, a massive shrug. "I'm free all week, thanks to the holiday. If you want I can give you a ride to a jeweler, get that stone taken care of."

"I'd appreciate that." He still felt it was too much, but Walter knew by now that Craig would never take it back. He put the case into his pocket and the two of them headed back to the center.

"Brace yourself," Craig joked, pushing open the door. Walter took a breath and stepped through.

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Bess Everton held up another magazine page next to Chloe's face and frowned critically as she compared the elegantly coiffed model's visage to the more harried bride's. "Hmph. Makes your face look puffy." She tucked the page away, pulled out another.

"I'm willing t'give this one a try," Deb said, holding up a picture of an elaborate, multi-tiered confection, "but I can't guarantee the punch fountain'd work."

"Something off the shoulder might look nice," Myra said as she paged through a thick book of wedding gown designs with Elsie.

"Ooh! I like this one." Elsie's finger stabbed at a particular page.

Chloe stretched her neck to peer over her aunt's shoulder. She grimaced. "It's got a corset. I'm not wearing that."

"What about this one?" Myra turned the page. The women _oohed _appreciatively at the simple yet glamorous design. Even Chloe had to admit it was pretty, especially compared to some of the other frilled monstrosities they'd subjected her to.

"Not sure I like the veil," she muttered.

"We can work on the veil later," Myra said. She folded the corner of the page to mark it. The pastor's wife would be making the dresses herself; all Chloe had to do was pay for the fabrics.

Bess thrust another magazine page into view. "This would look just fabulous with that gown!"

"Alright," Chloe agreed. She really didn't care how her hair looked, as long as it wasn't a beehive.

"This one's my personal fave." Deb showed her a printed card, yellowed with age, with a sketch of a three-tiered cake. "Grandmother's recipe. Icing's got a hint of caramel flavor."

Chloe read over the instructions, written in neat cursive. It looked easy enough that Deb might not mess it up too bad; she was a good cook, but a less than stellar baker. "Okay, we'll have that one."

"Great!" Elsie scribbled furiously in the wedding book. "All that's left is to decide what to serve at the reception." _And pick the bridesmaids_, her quirked eyebrow suggested.

Chloe rubbed her eyes. "Why don't you all work that out yourselves? I'll probably be too excited to eat, anyway. 'Scuse me," she turned to the back door, "I need some air."

She stepped out into the playground. The town's children were engaged in a life-or-death snowball war, the various factions hunkered down behind their snow forts hurling missiles and screaming challenges. Chloe watched the activity with a smile. Her hand unconsciously rested against her belly. Someday her own child would be out there, throwing snowballs and dropping icicles down other kids' pants. She tried to imagine what that child would be like; imagined a boy, since she was the one who would choose a boy's name. He would be lighter skinned than her, she decided, with Walter's red hair and her hazel eyes. Rambunctious, but never cruel. Curious, good-natured, quick to laugh. What would be a good name for such a child?

"Hey, Chlo."

Chloe smiled, turned her head to watch the familiar tall figure approach. "Hey, Hank."

Henry Dobbs loomed over her, almond eyes asquint in the brilliant light, face relaxed in an easy smile. "Needed a reprieve?"

"You have no idea," Chloe laughed. She punched him lightly on the arm. "Haven't seen you around much. Been avoiding me?"

Henry shrugged. "You're usually with Walter when I see you. Didn't want to cause any awkwardness."

"Best way to deal with awkwardness is to get acquainted with it. You're probably the best friend I've got, besides Walter. I've missed you."

Henry smiled. "Golly, that's sweet."

"Oh, shut up."

They settled into companionable silence and watched the kids play for a while. Chloe cast a sidelong glance at her childhood friend, which was difficult since she also had to crane her neck. An idea introduced itself to her thoughts and made itself at home. Her thoughts didn't mind the intrusion; they'd been hoping for such a resolution to show up.

"Hank?"

He lowered his head to meet her gaze. "Yeah?"

"I got something I wanna ask you. Promise not to laugh."

"Uh oh," he grinned, "What is it?"

Chloe licked her lips, nervous all of a sudden. "I need to pick a maid of honor, but I'm not really close with the women of this town. Only person I can really think of is you." She reached out, took his hand in both of hers, cold from the winter air. "You're the most honorable man I've ever known. Will you be my _man_ of honor?"

Henry's eyes widened. Touched by her words, he asked, "You really mean that?"

"Of course I do."

The tall man pulled his friend into a hug, the top of her head beneath his chin. "Then, yes."

Chloe hugged him back, smiled in relief.

"But I'm not wearing the gown."

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Meanwhile, Henry's father Zane leaned against the outside wall by the center's front door and smoked his pipe. Beside him, upwind of the steady curl of fragrant gray smoke, stood Walter and Craig. The aging general store manager had called them over when he saw them return from the parking lot. Walter hesitated at first; he wasn't sure how the father of the town's sheriff might behave towards him. On the other hand, Walter really didn't want to return to the crowds of well-wishers and friendly advisors. So he and Craig opted to prop up the wall with the older man for a few minutes.

Zane puffed contentedly on his pipe. "Always get nostalgic this time of year," he mused, "This is around the time when me'n the wife met. She passed on, oh, about nine years ago."

Walter wondered if he should say something, but the older man continued.

"During the War everybody with slanted eyes and funny names were herded up'n put in these god-awful detainment camps. 'For their own protection,' the higher-ups said, though I never saw them do the same for all the folks with Polish or German names. Course, Poles 'n Krauts were 'normal' lookin', unlike little Johnny Nagata, or whoever. I tell ya, there's nothing more depressing than watchin' a buncha six-year-olds playing tag behind a barbwire fence." Zane shook his head ruefully. "Anyhow, I was posted as a guard at one of them camps and that's where I met my Sarah. Fujimoto was her maiden name. Huh! Her family's been American damn near long as mine has. Couldn't speak a lick of Japanese."

Walter frowned; he'd never heard of these detainment camps. The idea that this great country would commit an act so similar to what the Nazis did at the same time--imprisoning some of its own citizens; ordinary people who'd done nothing wrong--angered and shamed him. The hypocrisy of it!

"Lotta those Japanese families lost damn near everything, thanks to their involuntary relocation," Zane continued, "Plenty of vultures out there bought up their houses and businesses for pennies. Sarah's family wasn't any luckier. By the time that damn prison finally closed down, the Fujimotos didn't have a home to get back to. Course by then Sarah 'n I were already engaged, so I ended up movin' her 'n the family into my place till they got back on their feet. Much as we all hated that camp, I can't help but feel a little grateful. If it hadn't been built, I never woulda met my wife. Just goes to show ya," he winked at the two younger men, "Somethin' good can always come outta the bad."

Craig grinned. "Zane, the incurable optimist."

"Damn straight." He jabbed the mouth-end of his pipe for emphasis. "World's grim enough without folks constantly lookin' for things ta bitch about." He seemed to look straight at Walter when he said this. Zane put the end of his pipe back into his mouth, puffed another cloud of smoke. The light breeze shifted at that moment. Walter caught a whiff of the pipe's smoldering contents. Its faint sweetness stirred a vague memory at the back of his mind. Puzzled, he tried to bring it to the surface, but the memory slipped his conscious grasp and hid itself away.

Craig nudged him back to the present. "You okay? Looked like you were driftin' off for a second."

"I'm fine."

Zane knocked the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, toed a layer of snow over them, placed the cooling pipe in his coat pocket. "Let's get back inside before our unmentionables freeze off."

Craig chuckled. Walter smirked. The three men stepped through the door into the center's warm interior.

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Two days to Christmas…

Walter peered through the glass display case where rows of precious and semiprecious gems in a variety of sizes and colors were arrayed on little velvet cushions. On the opposite side of the counter the shop's proprietor waited with the patience of a stone. Pale and balding, stoop-shouldered from long years of poring over lumps of crystallized minerals, the otherwise fussy man was a firm believer of the soft-sell. There was no need to pressure the customer into a purchase. Once the right gem caught his or her eye, the sale was all but guaranteed.

The open jewel case with the engagement ring sat atop the glass counter, diamond winking in the light. The jeweler had examined the stone and deemed it of excellent quality. He informed the quiet redhead with the intense sapphire eyes that he was more than welcome to select a replacement gem from the display case and have it set in the ring in return for the unwanted diamond. In truth, the diamond held more value than most of the stones on display, but if the stranger was willing to part with such a treasure, who was the jeweler to argue?

Walter paused, his slender finger pressed against the glass. "That one."

The jeweler peered into the case to view his customer's selection. He met the redhead's gaze, quirked a thin eyebrow. "Are you certain? It is not a traditional stone for an engagement ring."

Cold eyes bored into him. "That's the one I want."

"Very well, sir," the fussy man acquiesced smoothly. He unlocked the case, lifted out the little cushion with its shining burden.

"Can it be ready by Christmas?"

The jeweler paused in thought. "Considering the nearness of the holiday, I shall make your order a priority. You may pick up the ring tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you." Walter exited the shop, found Craig waiting in the station wagon with the heater running. He got in on the passenger side. "Need to pick it up tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, huh?" Craig raised his eyebrows. "Pretty quick for a place this busy, 'specially for this time of year."

"Picked something of lesser value. _Much_ less." Walter smirked. "Probably made the jeweler's week."

Craig pulled out into traffic and headed back for Jubilation. "So, what'd ya get?"

Walter told him.

"Huh! Think she'll like it?"

"Hope so." Walter believed she would, but he wasn't certain. He'd never bought a woman jewelry before. The fact that it was an engagement ring only added to the pressure.

Sensing his passenger's anxiety, Craig nudged him. "Relax! She'll love it, if only 'cause you put in the effort."

"'It's the thought that counts'?" Walter asked, the corner of his mouth quirked.

"Hey, if it weren't true no mother would ever put her kid's art projects out in plain view." Craig glanced at him, curious. "Didn't you ever give your mom a blobby painting or a lopsided candy dish?"

"Made a vase once," Walter said, wondering why he did so, "In school. Gave it to my mother for her birthday." His shoulders sagged a bit. "She used it for an ashtray."

Craig snorted in poorly contained laughter. "Sorry. Just the way you said that…" He subsided into giggles.

Walter scowled at the larger man, even as his own mouth twitched. "Laughing at my misery?"

"Hey, the masks of Comedy and Tragedy are next to each other for a reason, Walt. They're the twins of life's experiences. Only difference is the details you focus on."

The burly man switched on the radio before Walter could protest. Sugary holiday jingles permeated the car. Craig hummed along, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat. He looked at the sulking redhead. "Aw, lighten up, Walt! Get into the spirit of things. _Fa-la-la-la-la_--"

"Please don't sing," Walter begged.

"Hey, nothin' wrong with reinforcing the stereotypes once in a while." Craig raised his voice in a resonant warble. "'_Don me now in _gay _apparel…_' Get it?" He grinned.

Walter turned his head away. His shoulders quivered.

"_Fa-la-la, La-la-LA, La-la-laaah!_" Craig's voice cracked on the high note.

"Stop it!" Walter doubled over, face red, laughing uncontrollably. Craig's beard split in a smug grin. On the radio, the song ended and a commercial for car insurance came on. Walter managed to regain his composure. He straightened, wiped his eyes.

"I was startin' ta wonder if you'd had your funny bone surgically removed," Craig remarked.

"Wondered the same thing." Walter shrugged. "Never had anything to laugh about."

"Guess you were looking through the wrong mask."

The redhead's expression sobered a fraction. "Yeah."

The commercials ended. Banjo music jittered through the speakers. A twangy voice rose in accompaniment, _"Grandma got run over by a reindeer…"_

The two men looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

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The jeweler saw his red-haired customer's return and brought out the finished product. "Here you are, sir. I trust it is satisfactory?"

Walter opened the case to peer at the contents. "Yes." He shut it, tucked it away in his pocket.

The jeweler then brought out a slim envelope. "I have calculated the cost of the replacement gem and the labor involved in the setting in comparison with the diamond's worth. This is the remainder." He passed the envelope to the redhead. "Normally I would have written you a check, but unfortunately I neglected to order more and the banks have closed early for the holiday. I hope that cash is satisfactory."

Was he serious? "It's fine." Walter put the envelope into a different pocket. He nodded his thanks, turned for the door.

A ragged figure shambled through, rusted blade clutched in one grubby hand. He ignored the startled redhead and approached the glass counter, waving the dull knife in what he no doubt believed was a menacing gesture. "Gimme the cash!"

The shop's proprietor eyed the filthy interloper. He drew himself up, spoke in an indignant voice, "I _beg _your pardon?"

Startled by the lack of terrified cooperation on the part of the owl-eyed jeweler, the robber tried again. "Gimme the cash'r I'll gut ya!"

Behind the robber, unnoticed, Walter crept up on him with balled fists and eyes ablaze. Rorschach's old behavior began to resurface. He raised his arms, prepared to wrap them around the shabby man's neck and twist until he heard the familiar _pop!_ of displaced vertebrae. Just a little closer…

The jeweler calmly reached under the counter and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. He pointed it at the stunned robber, ignored the equally stunned would-be rescuer. "Kindly place your--I suppose we'll call it 'weapon'--on the counter."

The ragged individual extended his trembling hand and released his hold on the handle. _Clang!_ The rusted knife rattled on the glass.

The fussy jeweler shook his head in disgust. "Look at you. Barging into my shop, frightening my clientele--"

Walter, wide-eyed, lowered his arms and stepped out of the line of fire.

"--threatening _me_, a man trying to make an honest living. And on the eve of the birth of Our Lord as well. Have you no scruples, man!"

"Er," the robber's eyes darted from side to side, "No?"

The jeweler sighed. "Obviously." He turned to the bewildered redhead. "I thank you for your assistance, sir. The situation is well in hand. You may go."

"…okay…" Walter tread with care to the door, pushed his way out into the frigid air. He shuffled to the idling station wagon, climbed into the passenger seat.

Craig frowned at him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Walter replied vaguely. His eyes wandered to the shop's front window where he saw the jeweler, weapon at the ready, with a phone receiver at his ear. The police would arrive soon, start asking questions. Walter didn't want to put his new identity to the test. "Let's go."

With a shrug, Craig backed his car out of its parking space and drove off. A few minutes later, his shock abated, Walter pulled out the envelope and peeked at its contents. His eyebrows rose; more than he'd expected. Had he actually met an honest salesman?

"Get anything for Elsie?" Craig asked.

Aw, hell! "No."

The schoolteacher winced. "Ouch! Shopping on Christmas Eve's always a bitch."

"I don't know what to get her," Walter said, near panic.

"Well, what does she like?"

"I don't--" Walter paused in thought, "Wait, I _do_ know."

Luck was with them. They found what they needed in a little out-of-the-way store. Despite its semi-concealed location, the place bustled with last-minute shoppers. The harried clerk bagged Walter's purchase and absently wished him a Merry Christmas. He and Craig left the shop and headed down the block; in the holiday rush, all the nearest parking spots were taken. As they passed the mouth of an alley a faint sound gave Walter pause. He took a step back, peered into the narrow alley. A bundle of rags shifted, a wet cough emerged. Walter, who knew it was foolish, stepped into the darkness. A puzzled Craig followed. They neared the sorry heap sprawled on the frozen pavement. Bloodshot eyes peered up at them, blue-tinged lips parted. "Di'n't do nuthin'," the androgynous face croaked, "Lemme be."

Craig knelt beside the homeless person, face creased in concern. "Isn't there a shelter you can go to?"

"No room. Oth'rs too far t' walk."

Craig sighed, looked up at the silent redhead. "He'll freeze out here."

Walter nodded. He helped the burly man haul the vagrant to his (or her) feet and half walked, have carried him/her to the station wagon. They drove a couple of miles until they found a sizeable shelter that still had a few beds to spare. Its volunteer staff consisted of several nuns, a rabbi, and a pair of Buddhist monks. Because of this odd religious diversity, the locals referred to the place as Born Again & Again. Two of the volunteers quietly took the homeless person off the two men's hands.

"Thank you," said another, a young woman too inexperienced to have lost her idealism, "Far too many people forget the true meaning of the holiday. That is one poor soul who won't freeze to death this night."

_Not sure we did him a favor,_ Walter thought. The shelter bustled with shivering men, women, and even a few children. Not all of them shivered due to the cold. He pulled out the envelope with its remaining cash and handed it to the nun, then silently walked with Craig back to the car. The young woman watched them leave, the envelope clutched in her hand. Walter envied her belief that she could still make a difference, even as he pitied her for the day her disillusionment would come.

Behind the wheel, Craig said in an unusually subdued tone, "We did a good thing today. Always a good thing, savin' a life."

"Didn't save it," Walter disagreed, "Just bought an extra day."

"Maybe so. Or maybe this random act of kindness'll get that homeless person thinking about things. Maybe he'll decide life's worth livin' after all."

Walter snorted. "Wishful thinking."

"Nothing wrong with hoping for the best, Walt. Your life can be circling the drain one minute and then an angel drops outta the sky to haul you out the next." Craig looked at him. "Happened to _you_, didn't it?"

Walter smiled. He made a decision. "Craig."

"Yeah?"

"I'd like you to be my best man."

Craig gawped at him in genuine surprise. "Really?"

"Yes."

"I…I'd be honored, Walt."

The two friends shared a grin, then settled back for the ride home. Walter switched on the radio.

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"Baking holiday cookies always puts me in a festive mood!" Elsie extracted another sheet from the oven, grabbed a spatula to transfer its steaming contents onto a plate. Chloe spread colored icing onto triangular Christmas trees and pointy snowflakes, while Walter ogled the finished gingerbread men.

"Touch those on pain of my wooden spoon," Elsie waved said implement in warning, "Those're for my caroling group, as you well know."

"How many carolers could there be?"

The old woman retorted, "Well, if you'd agree to join us, you'd find out."

"No thanks, Els," Chloe said for both of them, "I can think of about a hundred things I'd rather be doing than freezing my ass off listening to a buncha off-key braying about sleigh bells and chestnuts on an open fire."

Walter smirked.

"Besides," Chloe continued, "Somebody's gotta make Christmas Eve dinner."

"Fine," Elsie huffed, "You two Scrooges stay here and slave over the roast while I go out with my fellow carolers and spread a little cheer." She transferred the last cookie onto the plate, shoved it towards her niece to decorate. "I'm going to change into something warmer." She exited the kitchen, cane dangling from the crook of her arm. The moment she was out of sight Walter snatched a gingerbread man from the plate and bit its head off.

"Hey! Save room for dinner, ya glutton!" Chloe laughed.

Walter chewed the pilfered treat in contentment, swallowed. "Promise I'll be hungry." He held the cookie out to her. After a second's hesitation, Chloe took a bite.

"Hm! Pretty good."

By the time Elsie made her appearance they'd sampled two Christmas trees and a snowman.

"Well?" The old woman struck a pose. "Whadda you think?"

Chloe clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. Walter bit his lip. Elsie stood before them in a furry red coat, black fur-rimmed boots, and a white furry hat with earflaps. As if that weren't enough, she had switched her plain wooden cane for one that was painted white with red stripes.

"Els," Chloe managed to say, "you look like Mrs. Claus Goes Logging!" She doubled over with laughter. Walter averted his eyes, face tense with repressed mirth.

Elsie crossed her arms in mock umbrage. "Well, _you _try standing around in twenty-degree weather for six hours in less than three layers of clothes!"

"_Six hours?" _Walter gaped.

"Damn right. Got a lotta houses to spread the Christmas cheer to."

Chloe straightened, wiped her eyes. "Probably hoping more than a few will invite you in for some 'Christmas cheer' of your own."

"If such offers should arise, I won't say no." Elsie straightened her hat. From outside came the faint sound of a car horn. "Oops! That'll be Lila." She embraced the couple, grabbed the boxed cookies, then hurried for the door. "You two have a nice evening! And for god's sake, Chlo, _baste_ the roast!"

"Yes, dear," her niece called, rolling her eyes.

The unforeseen blizzard hit less than two hours later. Chloe paced back and forth in the living room, eyes fixed on the TV's grainy image of the weatherman as he advised everyone to stay indoors and, if possible, find a nice bomb shelter to hole up in. At one point there was a loud scratching at the door. Walter hurried to open it and found himself confronted with the sorry sight of a wet, trembling dog. He barely had time to step aside as Nixon barreled in. Ordinary snow was one thing, but a dog house was no match for a whiteout. Nixon immediately plopped down beside the woodstove; his fur began to steam. Chloe wrinkled her nose at the distinctive stink of wet dog. Walter hurried to the bathroom, returned with a towel. He dried the wretched animal off. Nixon snuffled contentedly.

The phone rang. Chloe ran, yanked the receiver from its cradle. "Hello?"

"_Hello, Chlo. What d'you know?"_

Chloe heaved a sigh of relief. "Elsie, thank god! You alright?"

"_Just fine, honey. We're all holed up at Zane's house. Gonna ride out the storm here."_ There was the mingled sound of amiable chatter in the background. _"Unfortunately, the way things're going, I don't think I'll be making it home for Christmas."_

"Aww!" Chloe groaned in disappointment. This would have been her first Christmas in Jubilation in years. She'd been looking forward to spending it with her aunt. "I'm really sorry, Els."

"_Me too,"_ Elsie sighed, _"But don't let my absence ruin it for ya. You and Walter try and enjoy yourselves. Just go on and open the presents without me."_

"Alright. Love you, Els."

"_I love you too, baby. Put Walter on, willya? I want to wish him a Merry Christmas."_

Chloe handed the phone to the anxious redhead. "It's Elsie. She's okay."

Relieved, Walter put the receiver to his ear. "Hello?" There was a series of Yeses and Uhuhs, then Elsie decided to wrap it up. "Alright," Walter said. His eyes widened in surprise. "I…I love you too. Bye." He hung up the phone, looked at Chloe who smiled.

"Guess it's just the two of us," she said. And then the lights went out. "Shit!" Chloe stumbled towards the cabinet where the emergency candles and battery-powered radio were kept. The couch maneuvered itself to impede her progress. Her legs banged against its arm. "Dammit!" she yelled and almost lost her balance.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders. "Wait," Walter murmured in her ear, "Let me."

Chloe didn't move. The faint glow of the woodstove only served to enhance the utter darkness. She heard Walter's footsteps, confident and unhurried. Still at home in the dark. There came the faint squeak of the cabinet door's hinges, the scrape of a lighter's flint. Walter soon had a couple of candles lit, which provided enough illumination for Chloe to negotiate her way through the maze of furniture to his side. She took one of the candles for herself.

"Well," she smirked wryly, "Isn't this romantic?"

Walter smiled. "Feel right at home."

"I'll bet!" Chloe laughed. She took his hand. "C'mon. Let's go check on the roast."

Thankfully, the kitchen stove ran on gas. They set up a candelabra on the dining table and ate in its dim glow. Light music emitted from the battery-powered radio. Nixon, thanks to the humans' holiday spirit, dove into his share of the roast with uncustomary vigor. The woodstove continued to fulfill its vital role and held the blizzard's cold at bay.

The meal finished and dishes put away, Chloe turned to Walter and said, "Let's open presents now."

Walter blinked. "But it's Christmas Eve."

"So? What else is there to do? Besides," she gave a little jump of excitement, "I wanna see how you like the gift I got for you."

He smiled at the woman's eagerness. "Alright."

Chloe all but ran to the tree which they'd spent an entire day decorating and returned with a wrapped package to shove into his hands. "Here. This one's from Elsie. Open it!"

Walter carefully tore away a corner of the package, slowly peeled back the red and green patterned paper. He grinned at the woman's impatient fidgeting.

"Hurry up!" she whined.

The giftwrap slipped off and fell to the floor. Walter stared at the slim volume in his hands with a disembodied sense of déjà vu; it bore a striking resemblance to the journal Rorschach kept. He opened the front cover. Written inside in Elsie's curled script: _Stories are meant to be shared. I hope you find joy in sharing these with your child, as I had sharing them with you. Merry Christmas, Walter. --Elsie._

Inside the journal was every story Elsie had memorized over the years. Chloe peered over Walter's shoulder and exclaimed over the familiar words. "Those're all the stories she told me during my summers here. I loved hearing her tell them," she smiled, "Sometimes I'd pretend to have insomnia just to listen to her. Looks like she's passing them on to you."

A lump formed in Walter's throat, even as a smile touched his lips. He closed the book, lifted his head to meet Chloe's eyes. He smiled.

Returning his smile, Chloe picked up another package. "My turn." She shredded the wrapper. Another book, this one larger and much newer. "It's a baby book!"

"A what?" Walter frowned.

Chloe grinned and flipped it open; some of the pages were blank, while others were headed with such things as "Baby's Height, Age __:" followed by a series of lines. "It's like a scrapbook; a way of recording the first few years of our baby's life. Fill it up with pictures and mementoes and written entries." She closed the volume, hugged it to her chest. "I wish she was here right now so I could thank her. It's so wonderful."

Walter brushed a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and cupped her face. Chloe leaned into his touch, then abruptly turned away. "Your turn again!" She placed the baby book on the table, retrieved another package from the tree, rectangular and flat. "This's from me," she said, unnecessarily.

Walter put Elsie's gift town, took the package, tore it open. It was a framed single sheet of parchment, a poem written upon it in elegant calligraphy:

_My true love hath my heart and I have his,_

_By just exchange one for another given;_

_I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,_

_There never was a better bargain driven._

_My true love hath my heart and I have his._

_His heart in me keeps him and me in one,_

_My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;_

_He loves my heart, for once it was his own,_

_I cherish his, because in me it bides._

_My true love hath my heart and I have his._

Worried by his silence, Chloe asked, "Too sappy?"

"No," he rasped, "It's…" Words escaped him. He grabbed the back of her head, pulled her into a deep kiss. Chloe's arms went around his neck, careful not to hold too tight for fear of crushing her gift between them. They ended the kiss with great reluctance. "Thank you," said Walter.

Chloe smiled. "I'm so relieved you like it. I had a hell of a time figuring out what to get you." She stroked his face. "It says everything I feel for you."

Walter slowly drew away from her, laid down the poem with care, then picked up his gift to her from under the tree. He passed her the small box without a word.

With a grin of anticipation, Chloe unwrapped the little box. Her eyes widened at the sight of the jewelry case. A feeling of premonition rose in her. She pulled out the case with trembling fingers, lifted the hinged lid. She gasped at the sight of the ring gleaming silver in the dim candlelight, set with a smooth round stone, a white star at its center.

"Star sapphire," Walter murmured over her shoulder. In her shock she hadn't noticed him move behind her. He gently took the open case from her numb grasp, removed the ring from its velvet lining. Chloe turned, stared at him with her mouth parted. Walter smiled. "Have to do this right." He lowered himself onto one knee, took her left hand in a gentle grip. He looked up into her shining eyes. "Chloe, will you marry me?"

Chin aquiver with emotion, she whispered, "Of course I will."

The ring slid onto her finger without hindrance, a perfect fit. Chloe lifted her hand to gaze upon the beautiful gem. A tear escaped her right eye and rolled down her cheek. Walter stood, wiped the tear away with his thumb. "It says everything _I_ feel for _you_."

Chloe stared intently at him, then fell into his arms.

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The faint buttery glow from the edges of the stove door gave their naked skins a golden hue. This near to it, the heat was more than adequate enough that the couple felt to need to cover up.

Walter sat on the floor in front of the sofa, his back propped against it. Chloe lay beside him, her head pillowed against his bare chest. Eyes closed, she sighed in contentment. "Maybe next time we'll make it onto the sofa."

Walter emitted a faint sound that made her eyes pop open. She sat up and met his tired gaze. "Did you just _laugh?"_

He smiled at her. "Maybe."

Chloe shook her head. "Will wonders never cease?"

"Hope not." He caressed her face, raised himself up to kiss her. Chloe melted against him.

"Mmm," she kissed the tip of his nose, "This's the best Christmas."

Walter, who for years saw the holiday as just a time when things were slightly less busy for Rorschach, agreed. He ran his hands up and down her back. "Hope they're all like this."

Chloe grinned. "Me too." She admired the ring on her finger, the only thing she wore at the moment. "It's so beautiful. Where'd you get it?"

"Secret." He kissed her forehead, her lips.

Chloe straddled him, her movements slow. Her tongue plundered the redhead's mouth as if she sought to devour him. She could feel his arousal against her thigh, inched forward to position herself over it. Walter's hands on her hips guided her down onto him. They groaned into each other's mouths. Chloe moved against him, slow and languid. She trailed kisses down his neck, found his pulse point and sucked the heated skin. Her hands roamed over his chest. Walter's hand moved from her hip to her lower belly, crept down until his thumb found her clitoris and started rubbing. A moan escaped the woman and she quickened her pace. Her head tilted back, eyes closed, long hair cascading down her shoulders. Walter kissed her breasts, sucked on her nipples, while she rose and fell upon him.

"Walter," Chloe breathed. Her body tensed. Her inner walls tightened around him. Walter grabbed her hips and slammed her down on him. Their cries mingled as their shared climax washed over them.

Afterwards, deliciously weary and still straddling Walter, Chloe rested her forehead against his.

"Didn't make it to the couch again," Walter murmured.

Chloe giggled. "Maybe the third time's the charm."

Walter groaned. "Don't think I'd survive third time."

"Me neither. But what a way to go."

Again, that quiet, unexpected sound from the man beneath her. Chloe placed her hands on his cheeks. "I love your laugh."

"I love you."

"I love you." She kissed him. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Chloe."

They finally crawled onto the sofa and drifted into sleep.


	14. The Most Important Day

**A/N:** More adult situations, folks! (Golly, I love that euphemism.)

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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No one needed to dream of a white Christmas; it had come with a vengeance.

It took Chloe's and Walter's combined strength to push open the door. Snow lay in massive drifts, deep enough in some places to reach their hips. Arlo Henderson's snowplow would have its work cut out for it.

Beside the gawping couple, Nixon the lazy dog took one look at the winter wonderland and promptly returned to his place by the woodstove.

"Wow!" Chloe laughed, "This is amazing."

Walter shivered, his face turned dusky red. "Have to put on six layers just to get more firewood."

"Better get started, then," Chloe said cheerfully and marched back into the house. Walter sighed, followed her inside to get his winter clothes. It took a while, but he managed to refill the woodbox without too much trouble. Luckily the wood was stacked under a sturdy lean-to against the house. He was carrying the last armload towards the front door when the buzz of an engine caught his attention. Walter looked to where the entrance to the driveway was, buried under the snow, and saw a motorized sled approach. It pulled up in front of the house. Two figures sat in its saddle, driver and passenger. The passenger, in a familiar furry red coat, dismounted and hobbled towards the door.

"Thanks, Zane!" Elsie shouted over her shoulder and waved.

"Anytime, Els!" Zane revved the sled's engine and pulled out.

Elsie beamed at the startled redhead. "Hey, Walt. Miss me?"

Walter nodded. Elsie opened the door for him and they stepped into the house's warm interior.

"Elsie!" Chloe ran to her aunt. "You made it for Christmas after all."

"Yep." The old woman pulled off her hat and unwound the scarf from her neck. "Zane jumped at the chance to break in his new Ski-Doo. Didya already open the presents?"

Chloe and Walter exchanged looks. "Er, yeah. Look what Walter gave me." Chloe held out her hand.

Elsie gasped. "An engagement ring! Oh, how beautiful. What kind of stone is that?"

"Star sapphire."

"It's lovely." She beamed at the couple. "Did you two like my gifts?"

"We loved them, Els."

"Sorry I wasn't here to see you guys unwrap them."

Walter finished removing his heavy coat and boots. He circled around the two chatting women, returned with a pair of wrapped boxes. "Can still open yours."

Elsie grinned, shed her outdoor garments, and grabbed the first package.

"That one's from me," Chloe said.

Elsie hefted it. "Any hints?"

"You can't eat it." Chloe smirked. It was an old joke between them.

Her aunt tore away the colorful paper, opened the cardboard box. "Oh!" she exclaimed, lifted out a teapot, obviously handmade. "Where on earth did you find this?"

"Hattie Wellman," Chloe grinned; Hattie was notorious for her extensive collection of tea sets, each one different from the last and apparently never used more than once, "She lost or broke all the cups and didn't have any use for a lonely pot, so I bought it from her. Like it?"

The hand-thrown pot was earthy brown with dark blue-gray stripes at the top and bottom and deep green leaves around the middle. "I love it. It's so much nicer than my old pot." Elsie set it down on the coffee table and hugged her niece. "Thank you, Chloe."

Walter tentatively held out his gift. Elsie took it with a smile, tore open the wrapper. When the lid of the box came off, she gasped at the sight and raised her eyes to look at the nervous redhead. "Oh, Walter."

Nestled in the white tissue paper used to cushion it lay a porcelain figurine shaped like the sickle moon with a young girl curled up in its crook. From the expression on the little figure's face, one couldn't be certain if she was sleeping or crying. Walter had looked all over for something that reminded him of the first story Elsie had told him and when he found this in the little out-of-the-way shop he knew it was right. Chloe had helped him wrap it and assured him Elsie would love it, but he remained uncertain. He anxiously searched the woman's aged features for any hint of disappointment. "Do you like it?"

Elsie smiled and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. "It's the sweetest thing anyone's ever given me. Thank you."

Walter blushed from her affection. "Welcome."

Chloe peered at him over the older woman's shoulder with an I-told-you-so grin. Walter returned her smile.

Elsie placed the figurine at the center of the coffee table for all to appreciate. They all then spent the day together, talking of holidays past, reminiscing and laughing. Walter remained silent for the most part, having little of his past he wished to discuss on such a happy day, yet he no longer felt like an outsider in the presence of these two women who shared so much history. He felt that this was family, _his _family, and it was good.

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New Year's came and went. Weeks passed, the day of their wedding neared. Walter had his bachelor's party, though he did not attend; rather, a group of local men acquainted with the groom had a celebration in his honor. Their spouses gave them hell for it later, but in all they felt it was worth it. The Hens wound up throwing Chloe a bachelorette's party, which she _did_ attend. Bess Everton hosted it in her home. Neighbors later told that loud music was involved, and at one point a handsome, well-built young man dressed as a cop showed up, though he didn't look like a policeman anyone in Jubilation recognized. He entered Bess's house and didn't leave for some time. When asked, Chloe refused to comment.

The wedding day dawned bright and clear. Chloe fidgeted in her seat as Walter drove them to the church. Elsie sat in the backseat with their wedding clothes folded neatly beside her, almost as excited as her niece. Only Walter seemed unperturbed.

Vernon greeted them at the church entrance. "I always take it as a good sign when the couple arrives early." He smiled, impeccable in his fine black suit. "Myra will show Chloe and Elsie to the bride's room. Walter, follow me."

The couple looked at each other, then followed their separate escorts. Chloe's room was already crowded with the bridesmaids--Cecelia Whitcomb, the police dispatcher; and Lila Danvers--as well as Bess Everton who had her hair and makeup supplies at the ready. "Sit," she said imperiously, "We don't have all day."

Chloe sighed and took her seat, resigning herself to the beautician's ministrations.

Meanwhile, in his own cramped room, Walter changed into his tuxedo. Earlier that morning he'd managed to scrape off his perpetual five o'clock shadow which left his face feeling oddly naked. Adam and Zane, his groomsmen, made several witty remarks about his appearance, which didn't help his state of mind.

"Better be careful, boy," Zane smirked, "Chloe takes one look at you all dolled up an' she'll never let you grow that scrub on your face again."

"You almost look presentable," Adam remarked with a grin.

Walter snorted. "Won't last." He fiddled with his tie.

Craig came up behind him. "Trouble?"

"Never wore a bow tie, except clip-on." Walter grumbled. A large hand fell on his shoulder and turned him around.

"Here, let me." The best man tamed the stubborn knot. Walter had expected Craig to look silly in a suit, but the burly schoolteacher actually looked quite dashing. Adam certainly seemed to appreciate the effect, judging from the way he kept glancing at him.

"There." Craig straightened the tie, gripped Walter's shoulders in a comradely gesture. "Nervous?"

"Not really. Worried about dancing at the reception, though," Walter grimaced, "Stepped on Chloe's toes fifty times during rehearsal."

"You'll do fine," Adam assured him.

There was a knock at the door. Henry entered. Myra tailored a suit for him in the same color as the bridesmaids' dresses and managed to make it look not-ridiculous.

"Hey there, maid of honor," Zane grinned at his son, "What brings ya to the groom's side?"

Henry leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. "Well, 'maid of honor' or not, the others've forbidden me to go into Chloe's room till she gets her dress on."

_Good,_ Walter thought.

Henry nodded to the groom. "Hello, Walter. Nervous?"

"No."

"If you say so," the tall man responded, clearly unconvinced. He turned back to his father and grimaced. "Dad, there's no smoking in here."

Zane sighed, put his pipe away. "Y'know, there was a time a man could enjoy a good smoke anywhere, anytime, and not hafta worry about gettin' harassed by a buncha health nuts." He said _health nuts_ as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth.

Henry rolled his eyes. "Yes, Dad. Those were the days."

"_And_ people respected their elders!"

"Absolutely, Dad."

Craig chuckled. "Ah, Walt, can ya feel the love?"

Walter's mouth quirked. The Dobbins' banter reminded him of Chloe's and Elsie's frequent "disagreements."

Henry checked his watch. "Well, guess that's enough time for modesty. I'm gonna run on over to the bride's room," he sighed, "Wish me luck."

Walter frowned. "For what?"

"You kidding? The place's swarming with frantic women." The look on his face was not unlike a newly recruited soldier headed for the front lines.

The groomsmen gave him sympathetic looks.

"Good luck, Hank," Adam said, "You're a braver man than I."

"Just keep your head low, so to speak," Craig smirked at the tall man, "and stay the hell out of everybody's way."

"And if one of them asks you something," Zane advised, "just say to 'em, 'Whatever you think.'"

"Right. I'm off." Henry squared his shoulders and marched out the door.

Walter stared bemusedly. Was everyone crazy? It was a wedding, for god's sake! People had them all the time! Yet they behaved as if something momentous was about to occur, like the passing of Halley's Comet. He stared at himself in the mirror, all black creases and crisp white. An expensive tuxedo which he'd only wear once in his life. If he couldn't see the point of it when everyone else did, then maybe _he _was the crazy one.

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Elsie removed the lid from the box and lifted out the lacy contents. "The veil I wore on my wedding day," she said fondly. She carried it to the waiting bride, helped her place it on her head. Chloe looked at herself in the mirror; she hardly recognized the woman staring back at her. The white gown with its old-fashioned bodice and flowing skirt, the carefully braided and coiffed hair, the subtly made-up face. She was…

"Beautiful," Myra breathed.

Bess nodded. "Hardly took any effort on my part. You're a vision, girl."

There came a soft knock at the door. Henry's voice drifted in. "Hey, Chlo. You decent?"

Chloe smiled. "As I'll ever be."

Henry stepped into the room and froze. "Wow."

The bride turned to face him, giggling in nervous excitement. "Thanks. You don't look half bad yourself. Love the suit." She winked.

"Yeah, well, you're the only one." Henry scratched an itch on his chest.

"Stop that!" Myra chided, "You'll get wrinkles."

The sheriff lowered his hand. "Sorry."

"How's Walter?" Chloe asked, as if she hadn't seen him just a couple of hours ago.

"Fine. Nervous, though he won't admit it."

Elsie nodded. "Sounds like him." She returned her attention to the bride. "Okay, let's see. The veil is Something Old."

"The gown is Something New," Myra said.

"The pearl necklace is Something Borrowed," Lila smiled sweetly, "Which means I _will_ get it back."

Cecee handed Chloe her bouquet, a riot of bluebells and baby's breath amidst sprigs of green. "And Something Blue."

Henry smiled. "Guess that means we're about ready."

"Almost," Elsie picked up a handful of corsages made with the same flowers as the bouquet, "Be right back." She hurried out the door to the groom's room. "Knock-knock!" she said cheerfully, "How's the groom holding up?"

"I am _not_ nervous," Walter said firmly. His best man and groomsmen bit their tongues.

"Course not! What's to be nervous about?" Elsie stepped briskly into the room, handed out corsages to the groomsmen, and pinned the last one to Walter's lapel. "Only the most important day of your life."

Walter shook his head. "Day I _met_ Chloe was the most important day."

Elsie looked into his sincere blue eyes and smiled. "Were I forty years younger, I'd steal you away from that lucky girl."

The groom snorted, amused and not a little flattered. "Might be tempted, if that were so."

Corsage secure, Elsie smoothed the fabric of his lapel. "You look very handsome."

Walter blushed. "Thank you."

"Gotta head back and make sure Chloe doesn't fall apart at the last minute." She kissed the redhead's cheek and left. Her sudden absence left him feeling almost forlorn.

Craig gave him a pat on the back, which nearly bowled the smaller man over. "Relax, Walt. It's almost over."

"Hope not," he sighed.

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Judi Birdsong's nimble twelve-year-old fingers danced over the piano keys. _Here comes the bride, all dressed in white…_

Walter stood beside the altar with his best man, the "maid of honor" on the opposite side, and tried not to fidget as the procession marched down the aisle. First came the bridesmaids and groomsmen, arm-in-arm until they reached the end and separated to their respective sides. Next came little Alvin Harrison bearing the rings on a velvet cushion. Even Walter had to admit the boy looked adorable in his little tux. Alvin beamed at the groom, who smiled in return. Then came the flower girl; Adams's niece, whose name escaped Walter at the moment. Clad in a frilly dress, the grinning child scattered rose petals from her little basket. People in the pews cooed and chuckled at the sight.

Finally, the moment came. Walter braced himself; the church held its collective breath.

Chloe appeared, resplendent in her snowy gown. The people seated in the pews sighed. She marched arm-in-arm with her proud aunt down the aisle towards the altar.

Vernon leaned ever-so-slightly towards the groom and whispered from the corner of his mouth, "Breathe."

The air rushed out of Walter's lungs; he hadn't even realized he'd held it in.

The bride arrived at her destination. Elsie released her arm and stepped aside. Chloe smiled through her gauzy veil. "Nervous?" she whispered.

Walter smirked. "A little."

"Dearly beloved," Vernon's resonant voice boomed throughout the hallowed structure, "We are gathered here today to witness the union of this man and this woman in holy matrimony."

Walter tuned out the pastor's recitation, his attention solely on the woman before him. Even through the veil he could see the intensity of her smile, the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. He couldn't believe how far he'd come from the bitter, vengeful masked vigilante he once was. Walter never, ever in his sad life expected to find himself here, in a church, about to marry a woman who loved him as fiercely as he did her. How could this be? What angel or quirk of fate decided this for him? Whatever the reason or cause, he was eternally grateful.

A sharp nudge at his back drew his attention to the lull in Vernon's speech. Oh, right! "Er, I do."

The church murmured with muted laughter. Chloe's grin broadened at her groom's minor lapse.

Vernon smoothly continued, "And do you, Chloe Birdsong-Whitfield, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

Chloe's smile faded on those last words. Her chin trembled. A single tear fell from her left eye. Walter reached under the veil to gently wipe it away; a minor breach of wedding protocol that none remarked on. Chloe pulled herself together and said in a voice with only the faintest tremor, "I do."

"Present the rings."

Alvin stepped forward and held up the velvet cushion with its precious burdens. They were Chloe's grandparents' rings, intended for use over the generations, but instead hidden away in a drawer in Elsie's vanity until this day. The couple had tried the rings on; they fit as if made for them.

Walter picked up the smaller of the two rings, lifted Chloe's left hand in a gentle grip. "With this ring, I thee wed." He slipped it onto her finger.

Chloe repeated the process on him. "With this ring, I thee wed." The cool band of metal encircled his finger. Walter's throat tightened.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," Vernon concluded with a warm smile, "You may now kiss the bride."

Walter lifted the veil, let it drape itself behind Chloe's head. He cupped her beautiful face in his hands and kissed her soft, full lips. The church erupted into cheers. The kiss ended. Walter rested his forehead against hers.

"We're married!" Chloe beamed joyously.

"Yes we are." Walter smiled at his wife and kissed her again.

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The community center was even more heavily decorated than it had been at Christmas. Blue and white crepe paper draped from the ceiling in twisting chains, vases of bluebells and baby's breath rested atop blue tablecloths, an ice sculpture in the shape of Cupid presented a bowl of chilled blueberries in cream. Chloe laughed at the sight. "I think they might've gone a bit overboard with the color scheme."

"You think?" Walter stared at their surroundings and felt like the reception was being held under the Pacific. "Needs a mermaid."

Chloe laughed even harder. "I th-think I'm in hysterics! This is all so unreal."

"It's very real," Walter said, gazing at her with an intensity that took her breath away.

"I _really_ wish we could skip to the honeymoon," she said.

"Me too."

Sadly, duty called. The newlyweds were ushered to the long table and seated side-by-side. There was the meal, which the couple neither tasted nor recalled as they were too distracted with each other; then the toasts made by the best man and "man of honor," which they _did_ remember.

Henry Dobbins started. He tapped the side of his water glass with his fork and, when everyone grew silent, stood with his champaign flute held aloft. Everyone could see he was nervous. He cleared his throat, "Uh, everyone, I'd like to propose a toast," he glanced at the bride, who smiled at him in encouragement, "I've known Chloe since she was six and I was eight, but I think our friendship really started a couple of years later when she bet me five bucks to eat an earthworm."

Everyone chuckled and shook their heads. Henry grinned. "I won that bet, by the way," he said, which increased the laughter. Chloe giggled into her hand, her face flushed a darker shade. Walter looked at her and smirked.

Henry continued, "We've been good friends ever since. In fact, thinking on it, I believe we were _best_ friends. I was never happier for another person when Chloe married Byron--"

A silence fell on the gathered townspeople; he was treading on thin ice, bringing up Chloe's late husband.

"--and I was never sadder when she lost him." Henry's expression was sober, his eyes solemn. He swallowed. "Truth is, she wasn't the same person after that. I didn't think she'd _ever_ be the same happy, upbeat lady I grew up with. At least, not until now." He turned to the silent couple, met the groom's eyes with his own. "Walter, we both know we'll never really be friends, but I wanted to tell you today that you've managed to bring some of the old Chloe back to us, and for that I'll always be grateful. I wish you both every happiness." He turned to the rest of the crowd, raised his glass. "To the bride and groom."

"To the bride and groom!" everyone echoed, then drank. The newlyweds only sipped at theirs; Walter because he wasn't a drinker, and Chloe because of her pregnancy precluded more than a taste of alcohol. Chloe met Henry's eyes as he sat back down. _Thank you,_ she mouthed. Henry smiled.

Then it was the best man's turn. Craig stood, a mountain of a figure. Again, the gathered people of the town raised their glasses. "I haven't known Walt that long, obviously," he began with his signature grin, "But what I can say is that the second I met him I knew that, under all the scars, Walter had a good heart."

Several nodded their heads, others lowered their eyes in regret. Many of the latter had been involved with the mob that almost attacked Elsie's home. Walter knew this, yet offered no protest to their attendance. Holding grudges never did him any good as Rorschach, and he didn't want to resume the habit in Jubilation. He came here for a new start; the least he could do was offer the same to them.

"The time he's spent in our town hasn't changed my opinion of him," Craig continued, "It makes me happy to see how much he's opened up, and how much everyone here has come to accept and even like him." He turned to the groom. "Walt, I couldn't be prouder to be your best man. I know you'll be a wonderful husband to Chloe and a great father to your child. I hope your years together are long and that the good ones always outnumber the bad. To you, Walt. To the bride and groom."

Walter smiled at his friend in gratitude and hoped he lived up to such expectations.

Deb Blascoe's cake was brought in, a beautiful off-white confection topped by two little figures made from spun sugar; one a white-faced, readheaded groom, the other a brown-faced bride. Chloe grinned at the sight and turned to Deb. "Nice touch."

"I thought so," the older woman beamed proudly.

To everyone's surprise, the cake was actually delicious.

"We'll save the top part," Chloe explained to Walter, "keep in in the freezer until our first anniversary. It's tradition."

Like everything else about this day, he thought with a mixture of amusement and mild annoyance.

Then came the part Walter dreaded most; the dance. The band, made up of locals who possessed some musical talent, broke into a song with a slow beat. Chloe took Walter's hand and guided him out onto the cleared area of the floor. "Don't worry," she whispered in his ear as they took the first swaying steps, "Just take it slow and steady."

"Right." _Please don't step on her toes!_

Chloe pulled back to look into his eyes. Her own hazel eyes were mostly blue, her happy color, which rimmed her pupils like coronas. Walter gradually relaxed as he gazed into them. His hand at the small of her back pulled her a tad closer. "Can't wait till we can leave," he said in a low voice.

"Me neither," Chloe grinned. All around them other couples stepped out onto the dance floor. The area soon milled with embracing, swaying pairs. Chloe laid her head against Walter's shoulder. "This is nice, though."

Walter nodded and brushed his smooth cheek against her hair. She smelled faintly of lavender.

The song ended. The band began another with a slightly faster tempo. Chloe pulled back and grinned. "Up for a second?"

Before Walter could answer, a voice interjected. "May I cut in?"

Walter glared at his best man. "No."

"I didn't mean with _you_," Craig retorted in feigned irritation.

"Oh. Alright then." Walter politely stepped aside, a smile tugged the corners of his mouth.

Chloe laughed at their exchange as the burly man stepped in to dance with her. Walter stepped off the dance floor and watched his bride dance with his best man. His gaze wandered to some of the other couples; Zane Dobbins danced with Deb Blascoe, Vernon Birdsong with his wife Myra, and Adam Leonetti swayed along with his little niece standing on his feet.

"Not as agonizing as you thought?"

Walter turned to the old woman beside him and smiled. "Not quite."

Elsie grinned. "It's certainly been a delight for me. Can't remember the last time I got dolled up like this." She indicated her embroidered dress which looked quite flattering on her.

"You look good."

"I look better than good!" she huffed, "And yet none of these strapping men have asked me to dance yet." She rolled her eyes upward and sighed theatrically.

Walter smirked, offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

Elsie placed a hand over her heart and gasped. "Why, I'd be delighted!" She linked her arm with his and the two of them strolled out onto the dance floor.

By the punchbowl, Henry downed the last of his fruity beverage, set his cup down, and walked up to a particular couple. He tapped Craig on the shoulder, "Mind if I cut in?"

The best man looked at the bride and quirked an eyebrow. Chloe nodded.

"Okay." With a shrug, Craig relinquished his partner and stepped off the dance floor.

Chloe reached up to place her hand on Henry's shoulder as he reached down to place his hand on her back, their other hands clasped in a loose grip. Chloe craned her neck up at her friend. "I really appreciate that toast you gave, Hank."

Henry shrugged. "I meant it, y'know," he spoke in all sincerity, "I hope you two are happy together."

"We are," Chloe nodded, "And we will be."

"I'm glad."

Walter peered over his dancing partner's head to watch his bride with the town's sheriff. Noticing where his attention lay, Elsie prodded his shoulder. "Hey now."

The troubled groom looked at her.

"You should know by now there's nothing to worry about," the old woman chided, "Chloe's all yours, no matter what anyone else might think they feel for her. Let it go."

Walter sighed, nodded. He knew she was right, but that faint nagging doubt remained. He forced himself to look away from the other couple and focused on not mashing Elsie's dainty feet under his clumsy treads.

The moment of the bouquet toss arrived. Chloe stood on the band's dais, her back to the crowd of eager women, and flung her bouquet behind her. She turned quickly to watch the ensuing struggle and laughed as the flowers bounced among the grasping hands. Finally, Cecelia grabbed hold and clutched the bouquet to her chest. She grinned and laughed in victory, her sloe-eyed gaze drawn to a particular figure in the crowd.

"Better watch out," Zane murmured to his son, "Looks like Cecee's got her eye on you."

Henry blinked in surprise, then looked at the young police dispatcher with more care. His expression turned thoughtful.

"_Now_ can we go?" Walter asked his bride, only half joking.

Chloe nodded. "All that's left is to run the rice gauntlet. You game?"

"Absolutely," he smiled.

They dashed through the hailstorm of grain to Chloe's waiting car. The vehicle was festooned with blue and white ribbons, its back glass painted with the traditional _Just Married!_ The newlyweds waved farewell to the cheering crowd and made their escape.

Chloe laughed as she removed her veil and stowed it in its box. "My god! I feel like I've run a marathon. In heels," she added with a grimace. She kicked off the uncomfortable footwear and wiggled her toes with a relieved groan.

Behind the wheel, Walter smiled at her antics. "Any idea how long?" he asked.

"Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours."

Walter sighed, but kept their speed at a reasonable pace. No sense risking an accident on their way to their honeymoon. Adam had informed them of an out-of-the-way place near a smallish lake (or largish pond, depending on one's perspective) that offered some nice cabins for rent. They'd already reserved one for themselves for two weeks; all they had to do now was get there. Chloe dug out the directions from her handbag and read them off. "Got it?" she asked.

Walter nodded.

"Good." Chloe returned the slip of paper to her bag, tossed it into the backseat, then proceeded to undo Bess's work on her hair. "Criminy, how many hairpins did she use?"

"Looks pretty on you."

"Thanks," she grinned.

He shrugged. "Course, I think everything looks pretty on you. Except that brown sweater."

Chloe immediately rose to the garment's defense. "C'mon, it's the most comfortable top I own!"

Walter looked at her in alarm. "You didn't bring it, did you?"

"No," she snorted, "For the sake of our honeymooning bliss, I left it at home."

"Good."

She slapped his shoulder. "Jerk."

He grinned.

As the early winter evening began to fade into night, they pulled up in front of the manager's office to get their key, then drove the short distance to their cabin. Chloe reluctantly put her shoes back on while Walter hurried to the car's trunk to get their bags. He carried them to the cabin, unlocked the door, and stowed them inside. Then he returned to intercept Chloe, who'd started down the walkway. She squealed in alarm as the redhead scooped her up in his arms and flung her arms around his neck.

"Walter! Wha--"

"Tradition." He grinned, carried her to the open door, stepped over the threshold. He kicked the door shut behind them, then looked around the cabin's cozy interior. "Where's the bedroom?"

Chloe laughed. "You can put me down now, you know."

Walter ignored her. He strolled towards a promising door. Chloe obliged him by turning the knob and pushing it open. Jackpot. He carried her into the room, laid her gently on the queen sized mattress with its quilted comforter. Chloe sighed; the bed was very comfortable. Walter straightened, removed his coat, draped it over the back of a chair. The cabin's bedroom had its own fireplace, a fire already laid out and ready. All it needed was a light. Walter picked up a box of matches from the mantle, struck one, and lit the prepared kindling. Soon the logs were ablaze, bathing the otherwise dark room in an amorphous orange and yellow glow.

Chloe sat up, her long hair draped over her shoulders. Walter knelt at the foot of the bed. He removed her shoes, set them aside, peeled off her lacy white stockings one at a time. He did this slowly, enjoying the sight of the gauzy fabric sliding off her smooth brown legs. He tossed the stockings aside, ran his hands up the lengths of her bared legs. Chloe leaned back on her elbows and sighed, eyes closed, mouth curved in a smile. She felt Walter's soft lips travel up her left shin in a series of light kisses. When he reached her knee, he repeated the process on her right shin. He then pushed the gown's long skirt up over her knees, past her thighs. His fingers hooked in the waistband of her white satin panties, bought specially for this night. Chloe raised her hips to let them slide off without hindrance. She opened her eyes to look at Walter as he slid the panties down the length of her legs. He met her eyes and, with a smirk, tossed the underwear over his shoulder in a careless gesture. Chloe giggled.

Walter ran his hands over her exposed thighs, the ring on his left hand winking in the firelight. Chloe's legs parted at his touch. The sensitive flesh of her inner thighs was the softest Walter had ever felt. He rained soft kisses on them as he worked his way up, his progress slow. Chloe's breaths quickened as he neared her womanhood. She hooked her knees over his shoulders. Beneath the crisp fabric of his white shirt she felt the muscles of his shoulders and back move. At last, Walter reached his destination. He lifted his head a fraction to meet his bride's ardent gaze, then lowered it to her triangle of curls. Chloe threw her head back and moaned as his lips and tongue caressed her most sensitive parts. His strong hands grasped her hips to prevent them from bucking against him, for Chloe lost all control of herself in the onslaught of sensations he brought her. The muscles of her thighs twitched, her upper body writhed on the bed. She wadded the quilted comforter in her tight fists.

Walter's body responded to the groans and mewls she emitted. His trousers grew uncomfortably tight. _Not yet,_ he told himself. He removed one hand from her hip and traced the edge of her opening with a fingertip. Chloe whimpered in response. He slid his finger into her, slowly, and she moaned. He felt the muscles of her inner walls pulse and ripple around his finger. He curled it inside of her; she cried out. He heard the sounds that signaled the approach of her climax. He added a second finger to her slick passage.

"Walter!" Chloe screamed. Her back arched, the muscles of her womanhood clamped around Walter's fingers with a strength that astonished him. He raised his head to look at her face as her orgasm elapsed. It was radiant.

Chloe panted, sprawled on the bed. She lifted herself onto her elbows to meet Walter's intense gaze. He moved up from between her legs, lips crashed against hers. Chloe wrapped her arms around his neck. "I can taste myself on you," she whispered when the kiss ended.

Walter groaned. His hands fumbled with his trousers. They slid down his legs along with his underwear. He scrambled onto the bed, slid into Chloe's still-wet opening. Her legs coiled around his waist and her hips rose in time with his eager thrusts. He was so aroused that all too soon his body tensed and he cried out in completion. As he came down from his high he looked down at the woman beneath him, his upper body supported on shaky arms. Her voice hadn't joined his.

"Came too quick," he said, disappointed in himself, "Sorry."

Chloe sat up, cradled his face in her hands. "Nothing to be sorry about," she kissed him tenderly, then gave a small laugh, "I mean, we haven't even undressed yet."

Walter smiled and kissed her back. "Easy to fix." He rose, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet. He removed the cufflinks from his dress shirt, set them on the nightstand, unknotted his tie. Chloe unfastened his shirt buttons and pulled the garment down from his shoulders, let it fall to the floor. Walter immediately retrieved it and folded it neatly over the back of the chair with the tux's coat.

Chloe giggled, "When did you get fussy?"

"Know how much that thing cost?" While she continued to laugh, Walter pulled off his undershirt and untangled himself from his trousers. Naked, he stared at the woman still in her wedding gown. "Still dressed."

"Maybe you can help." With a sly grin, Chloe turned her back to him. She gathered her long hair and draped it over one shoulder, out of the way. Myra hadn't included a zipper when she made the gown. Instead, the bodice closed with a tied ribbon that crisscrossed down the back. A slight tug and the knot came undone. Walter pulled the two sides apart, stretching the ribbon into a lattice across the exposed skin of Chloe's back. The contrast between the ribbon and her dark skin was very alluring. Chloe felt his fingertips brush against her bared skin and shivered. Walter smiled at this. He leaned in and blew gently against the back of her neck. She gasped, shivered harder. Then he pressed his lips to her heated skin while his hands loosened the gown further. Chloe lowered her arms to let it slide off her body and puddle at her feet. Walter's hands reached around and cupped her breasts while he continued to kiss her neck and shoulder. Chloe turned her head until her mouth connected with his. Tongues danced and probed one another. Walter squeezed her breasts and she moaned into his mouth. Chloe turned, wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close. She felt the hard length of his arousal press against her lower belly. They inched their way to the bed until Chloe felt its edge against the backs of her knees. She lay down, taking Walter with her. He lay full length on top of her.

Chloe drew away from their kiss. "Sure you don't wanna pick up the dress?" she teased.

"Hell with it." Walter kissed her again, stifling her laughter. He felt her open herself to him, felt her hand grasp his member and guide it into her. He slid in with a moan, raised himself onto his arms to look down at her, into her shining eyes. His thrusts were slow and even; he wanted to take his time.

Chloe reached up, rested her warm palm against his smooth cheek. "My husband."

Walter smiled. "My wife."

They made love long into the night, while the fire died down to glimmering red coals in the hearth.


	15. Memories, Good & Bad

**[WARNING: This chapter contains disturbing subject matter, specifically pedophilia, which shall be typed in italics to make it easier to skip over should any reader wish to.]**

**A/N:** This chapter is separated into three distinct episodes, each one containing a separate memory belonging to a main character. The first, and most disturbing (note the above warning) will be typed in _ITALICS_, the second will be in **BOLD**, and the third will be UNDERLINED. Don't let the chapter's dark beginning throw you off; it has a happy ending, I promise!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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_WALTER'S MEMORY_

They seldom left their cabin the first few days; hardly ever left the bed, in fact. After one particularly vigorous coupling Chloe lay on her back with her arm thrown over her eyes and murmured, "Can't remember the last time I had this much sex in so little time."

Walter winced. "Don't like to call it that."

Chloe moved her forearm away from her eyes and look at the man beside her. "Really? You'd be the first guy I ever met who preferred 'making love.'"

"Don't really like that either. Too sentimental."

She snorted. "Well, what _do_ you wanna call it?"

He ran his finger up from her navel to the valley between her breasts. "Don't like to call it anything," he grinned, "Like to _do_ it."

Chloe laughed. "You're a strange guy, you know that?"

"Rather have me normal?"

She shook her head. "No such animal. Every time I meet someone I think might be normal, they turn out to have something weird about them." She leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially, "I think 'normal' is just a made-up word."

Walter's mouth quirked. "So, you're not normal?"

"Heck no! I read science fiction and I'm married to a guy who used to run around in a mask beating up bad guys. Put that way, I sound like a fetishist."

He laughed quietly. Chloe still wasn't used to this; until very recently even a _smile_ was a rare occurrence from Walter. She liked the way his laughter sounded. She kissed his smiling lips, let her mouth part to grant his questing tongue access. Beneath the rumpled blankets, pressed against her thigh, his member hardened. They looked at each other, equally startled. "Good lord, Walter!"

He blushed. "L-look, I know you're too tired--"

Her mischievous grin stopped him short. Chloe's head suddenly darted under the covers. Walter gasped, horrified. "Stop!"

She reappeared beside him, brow creased in a puzzled frown. "Why? What's wrong?"

He sat up and gripped her shoulders with hard fingers. "Don't do that," he said, voice harsh with an emotion she couldn't define, _"Ever."_

Hurt, she pushed his hands away and sat up to meet his gaze on the same level. "If it bothers you, then I won't. But I wish you'd explain. I don't like being told not to do something without reason."

Walter averted his eyes, lips compressed in a thin line. "It's disgusting," he growled, "It's…back alleys and…disease and…" He shuddered. "Dark places. Heavy, stinking sweat…"

Chloe stared at his shifting expression. He looked nauseous and afraid. He hugged his knees to his chest and shivered. It reminded her of kids she'd seen when she worked at the free clinic back in New York. Quiet, moody children who cringed from her touch. She remembered the day after she and Walter reunited, in the motel room, when he'd told her of his mother's prostitution. Chloe had asked him then if any of the men his mother brought home ever hurt him, but he wouldn't say. She laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Walter?"

His blue eyes met hers, foggy with unwanted thoughts. "I don't want to remember."

"It's okay," she said, stroking his cheek, "I'm sorry I upset you."

Walter closed his eyes, forced the shadowy images back into the recesses of his mind. "Not your fault."

Chloe hugged him and he put his arms around her. "It's not your fault, either," she murmured, "None of it is."

He trembled. "Please. I don't want to talk about it."

"Alright," she stroked his hair, "We don't have to talk about it."

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Shh, it's alright."

Walter's arms tightened around her. Their bodies swayed, side to side, in a soothing motion. After a while Walter spoke in a subdued, sad voice, "She was drunk when she brought him home."

Chloe shut her eyes, arms still tight around him, and listened.

_Mommy was drunk when she brought the man home. This was nothing new; she was drunk a lot, and she brought a lotta men home. Walter stayed in his room when this happened and tried to blot out the ugly noises. He looked through his dog-eared books or played with his old toys or listened to the radio, long as the volume was turned real low and he pressed the speaker to his ear._

_The man Mommy brought home that night was fat and sweaty, like a bloated pig waiting for slaughter. Walter peered at him through a crack in his door and the fat man noticed, met his frightened gaze with beady mud-brown eyes._

"_Wazzat?"_

_Mommy's head wobbled unsteadily as she turned. Her saggy face contorted in rage. "Shut tha' door, ya li'l shit!" she screeched._

_Walter hastily slammed his bedroom door closed. He heard Mommy's slurred words through the flimsy wood. "Jus' my kid. Dumb li'l bastard."_

_Shuffling footsteps, the slam of a door. Moments later, the rhythmic _thunk-thunk_ of overworked bedsprings. Walter climbed back into his bed and buried his head under the pillow. He soon drifted off to sleep._

_The sound of his creaking door woke him. Walter peeked out from under the pillow. He saw Mommy's open door across the hall. The dim light of her bedside lamp illuminated her unconscious form sprawled on the bed. The image was all but blotted out by the massive blob that was the pig-man, wearing a stained wife-beater and threadbare boxers. His flabby gut sagged beneath the wife-beater's inadequate concealment._

"'_Wake, kid?"_

_Walter squeezed his eyes closed. He heard the heavy steps of the fat man on the warped floorboards. The pillow was yanked away from his head. His blue eyes flew open, stared fearfully up at the looming figure. The fat man's porcine features twisted in irritation._

"_Fuckin' boy," he snorted, "Ugly little shit, aincha?"_

_Walter pulled his blanket up to his nose. The fat man yanked it away, grabbed the boy's chin and turned his head. Walter trembled._

_The fat man squinted. "Gotta pretty mouth on ya, though." His beefy hands suddenly wrapped around the child's thin neck. He leaned down over the terrified boy until his rancid breath washed over him. His terrible weight knocked the air from the child's lungs. "Say one goddamn word an' I'll kill you'n your bitch momma," the fat man snarled menacingly, "Cut yer goddamn throats 'n drop ya in th' river. Understan'?"_

_Tears flowed from Walter's wide eyes. His mouth opened as if to scream or sob, but no sound emerged. The pig-man shook him. _"Understan'?"

_Walter nodded. The big hands were removed from his neck. The fat man fumbled with his boxers, drew out a long pink thing that jutted from the slit at the front of the underwear. "Open yer mouth."_

_Walter clamped both hands over his mouth. The fat man grabbed a handful of the boy's red hair and yanked his head back. The sharp pain brought fresh tears to Walter's eyes. "I said, open yer fuckin' mouth!"_

_Sobbing, the boy removed his trembling hands and opened his mouth a fraction. The hard pink thing rammed past his thin lips, filling his mouth and choking him. A low moan of terror emerged from the child's throat._

"_Bite me an' I'll knock yer goddamn teeth out."_

_Big hands grabbed either side of the boy's small head and the fat man began to thrust. Walter squeezed his eyes shut, tried to pretend it was a horrible nightmare, tried to blot out the hideous grunts of the pig-man who violated him. He gagged as thick fluid suddenly filled his throat, threatening to drown him. The fat man withdrew the now flaccid pink thing and tucked it back into his shorts. Without another word he turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Walter vomited over the side of his bed, a feculent stew of partially digested food and the fat man's seed. Afterwards the child hid under the blanket and wept. He did not sleep that awful night, and thereafter he began to sleepwalk._

_Years later, though his conscious mind no longer remembered what was done to him, every time he saw the whores on their knees in front of their johns Walter's stomach cramped in a reaction far more intense than any of their other activities brought out in him. It was only when he discovered little Blaire Roche's remains and captured the monster who killed her that it all came flooding back. When he'd taken the meat cleaver to the man's skull, in Walter's mind's eye, it was the pig-man he was killing. But the pain of remembering was more than he could bear, so he'd hidden away…and become Rorschach._

Chloe cradled Walter's face in her hands, brushed the tears away with her thumbs. Her own cheeks gleamed wetly, her chin trembled. "I'm so sorry."

Walter shut his eyes, leaned his forehead against hers. "Wanted to forget."

"I know. But that's not how it works."

"No." He lifted his head to look into her eyes. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." Chloe stroked his face tenderly.

"I want…" he struggled to find the words, "I want to push the memory away."

Chloe nodded, urging him to go on.

Walter gripped her shoulders, gentler this time, to try to get his meaning across. "I want to…make a new memory. _Better_ memory. So I can stop thinking about it." His eyes were intent with fear and longing. His hands moved from Chloe's shoulders to cup her face. His voice dropped to a husky whisper, "Will you help me?"

"Yes, Walter."

He kissed her deeply, then lay back and guided her head downward. She went without hesitation. Her hands touched his softened member, stroked it until it stood out from its nest of ginger curls. She glanced up at his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, face tense with anxiety. Chloe steadied his hard member with one hand and brought her mouth to it.

Walter tensed; a warm wetness different from that of Chloe's womanhood enveloped him. Her tongue, like wet velvet, swirled around the head of his erection. Her fingers, wrapped around him, glided up and down his shaft. Walter moaned, fingers tangled in her long hair. Emotions roiled in him; disgust warred with pleasure, fear battled love. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look down at the woman doing this to him. Chloe, who loved him, who he loved. Her warm breath, her soft, full lips. Her head bobbed up and down. Walter's hips began to move in time to her actions. His breathing grew ragged with desire. He removed his hands from her head and grabbed handfuls of bedclothes in clenched fists. A moan escaped his lips. Hearing this, Chloe quickened her pace. Closer…closer… Walter arched his back. A cry burst from him.

Afterwards, he lay limp and tired. And relieved. Chloe crawled up the length of his body and rested her head against his chest. Walter's arms went around her. "Thank you."

Chloe smiled. "Thank you for trusting me, Walter."

He stroked the bare skin of her shoulders and let his eyes drift shut.

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**CHLOE'S MEMORY**

All too soon, the honeymoon ended. The newlyweds returned to Jubilation. February rolled around. Elsie baked heart-shaped cookies and the town put up decorations of red and pink. Everywhere one was confronted with the sight of chubby naked babies with tiny wings on their shoulders firing arrows at free-floating hearts.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" Chloe handed Walter a crepe paper rose.

He took it with a bemused expression. "What's the point?"

"'Cause it's fun and romantic," she winked, "_And_ it's an excuse for women to pig out on chocolates."

"Said you couldn't eat chocolates," he pointed at her belly.

Chloe rolled her eyes.

Elsie, icing another cookie, spoke up. "It's a day for everyone to declare their love. For secret admirers to send gifts and for others to wonder who their valentine could be." She smiled fondly. "That's how I found out about my Jarrod's feelings for me."

Walter mock-glowered at his wife. "Better not have a secret admirer."

"Well, what if I do?" Chloe teased, "I'm not such a bad catch, am I? Besides, maybe _you're_ the one with the secret admirer."

The redhead blinked, incredulous. "Me?"

"Why _not_ you?" Elsie asked.

"Er…" He glanced at the wall clock. "We'll be late."

The women exchanged amused smiles.

Upon their arrival at the social, Walter concluded that Jubilation's residents had an unhealthy obsession with holiday decorations. The center looked as if it had been subject to a grenade attack with cherry Kool-Aid and Pepto-Bismol.

Chloe laughed at his expression. "I'm sure it's not as bad inside."

It was worse. There were balloons and plastic Cupids hanging from the ceiling. The buffet table, normally a potluck of various foods, was laden with pastries and candies in every conceivable shade of red and pink. It was too much even for Walter's notorious sweet tooth.

"Hey, Walt." Bess Everton appeared, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, and thrust a wicker basket at him. "Flower for your sweetheart?"

Startled by the sudden movement, Walter leaned away from her. "What?"

"White's for friendship, pink's infatuation, and red's for love."

He eyed the multicolored carnations, reluctantly chose a red one. "Thanks."

"No prob." Bess wandered off to assault the next poor bastard.

Walter sighed and wandered over to the buffet. He noticed little Alvin trying to reach one of Elsie's cookies. Walter nudged the plate closer. The boy snatched a pink heart, took a massive chomp. He beamed up at the redhead, crumbs sprinkling from his mouth. "Th'nk 'oo!"

"You're welcome." Walter smiled.

Alvin swallowed. He pointed at the flower in the man's hand. "That for Chloe?"

Walter nodded. "If I can find her." He scanned the milling crowds. He saw Henry Dobbins--which wasn't difficult since the man was six-four--wending his way towards a particular group of women. Chloe was among them. In the sheriff's hand were two carnations, one white, the other pink. Walter tensed. Henry reached the group, who greeted him with smiles, and said something to Chloe. She beamed. Henry handed her a flower. Walter relaxed; it was the white one. Henry then turned to another young lady, Cecelia Whitcomb, and shyly offered her the pink carnation. Cecee hid a bashful smile behind her hand and took the proffered flower.

Walter raised his eyebrows. "Hurm."

"Hurm?"

Startled, he looked down at the curious boy. Walter forgot he was there. "Means I'm thinking."

"About what?" Alvin asked, pink icing smeared on his lips.

"About how you need a napkin." Walter picked one up from the table, handed it to the boy who wiped his mouth with it.

Chloe saw her husband and went to join him. "Did you see that?" she grinned, excited, "I think Hank and Cecee are an item!"

"Good for them." Walter handed her the red carnation, which she accepted with enthusiasm.

"I feel so popular," she giggled, holding up her two flowers. Though Walter smiled back, she could tell he'd just about reached his socializing limit. Days like this, when the center was full and everyone was energized, he tended to wear out sooner. Chloe took his hand. "C'mon, I wanna show you something."

Glad for the reprieve, he let his wife lead him away. They retrieved their winter coats and stepped out into the bright day. Sunlight blazed off the mounds of snow accumulated from the snowplow's clearing. The couple put on their sunglasses. Chloe led her husband beyond the confines of the ever-bustling playground. Their boots sank into the unplowed snow up to their knees in places. The effort it took to walk through it soon had them both panting.

"Where…are we going?" Walter managed between breaths.

Chloe grinned at him. "Almost…there."

They came to an ancient wooden fence, its dark color stark in contrast to the surrounding white. The fence had once surrounded a forty-acre pasture, but now only a few sections remained. Chloe knelt by a particular post, brushed the snow away. Walter could see the post was covered in initials: VB+MR, SF+ZD, KL+AH, and so on. Chloe pointed to one particular set: TC+GB.

"My parents. I was here when they carved them in." She traced the letters with her gloved fingertips.

Walter looked at her. "Never said much about your parents."

Chloe shrugged, eyes still on the post. "Not much to say. They were good people, gave me everything I could ever need, but…" she sighed, "I think they had me out of some sense of obligation. You know, you get married, you _have_ to have kids. They didn't know how to take care of me emotionally. I think that's why they brought me here every summer, so Elsie could do all the nurturing. Most of my memories about them are indifferent, except this one."

Walter crouched beside her, looked at the carved letters. "On Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah," Chloe smiled and met his eyes, "When I was about eight."

**Elsie somehow convinced Mama and Dad to visit for Valentine's. Normally, Chloe's parents avoided Jubilation, only showing up to drop her off in the summer and pick her up three months later. This time, for whatever reason, they came and Chloe got to see her favorite place in the world blanketed in snow. She thought it was magical.**

**The whole town gathered at the community center for the holiday. Chloe ate heart-shaped sweets until she was almost sick, then played with her friends out on the playground. At one point she saw her parents walking off, hand-in-hand. Curious, she decided to follow them, but at a distance. This might constitute a "private moment" and Mama and Dad told her **_**never**_** to interrupt such moments. Though never abusive, Dad wouldn't hesitate to punish his daughter for disobedience.**

**Dad and Mama waded through the deep snow to where the old fence stood. Chloe knew of it, of course, but never spent any time there. What for? The playground had a much neater jungle gym to climb around on. The girl watched as her Dad pulled something out of his pocket and unfold it; his pocketknife. He handed it to Mama with a grand ladies-first gesture. With a laugh, Mama took the knife and bent over one of the fence posts. The blade cut into the aged wood. Mama then handed the knife back to Dad, who repeated the process himself.**

**Chloe took a couple of steps closer, squinting to see what they'd done. That was when Mama noticed her.**

"**Chloe?"**

**The girl tensed. Dad straightened and regarded her with his dark eyes, expression unreadable. Then he smiled and beckoned her closer. "C'mon over."**

**Surprised by this unusual welcoming, the girl joined them at the fence. Mama pointed to the post. "See that?"**

**Chloe peered at the spot her mother indicated. Fresh cuts on the post, lighter than the surrounding wood, marred its surface: TC+GB.**

"**Teresa Carver and George Birdsong," Dad explained with a smile. He ran his gloved hand over the scarred wood. "They'll be here forever."**

**Chloe saw the way her parents looked at each other and felt a little sad; they never looked at **_**her**_** like that. She wondered if anyone ever would.**

"**C'mon," Mama said, "Let's head back."**

**Chloe trailed behind her parents who walked holding hands. A mischievous impulse took hold and the girl bent down for a handful of snow. Dad jumped as a snowball struck his back and spun around. Chloe stood with her arms behind her back, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. Stern faced, Dad crouched and grabbed a fistful of snow. The girl dodged, squealed when the hurled missile struck her shoulder. Mama laughed and threw a snowball at her husband. Soon the small family was engaged in an all-out snowball fight. Chloe laughed, the winter air burning her lungs. She suddenly found herself caught up in Dad's strong arms and they tumbled into the snow, laughing and rolling.**

**Afterwards the three of them walked back, Chloe between her parents, holding their hands. She never felt more connected to them than she did that day.**

The memory brought a wistful smile to Chloe's lips. Walter looked at her parents' initials, looked at her. "Did you and Byron…?

She shook her head. "Never thought about it." He could see the regret in her eyes. Chloe reached into her pocket, pulled out her keys. From the keyring she removed a little pocketknife and unfolded its blade. She found a blank area on the post, carved her initials: CW. She looked at her husband, handed him the little knife. Walter took it, hesitated. Which name should he use? The one he was born with, or the one he had now? He met Chloe's eyes; she smiled in encouragement. Walter made his decision and cut into the aged wood. Finished, he folded the blade into the handle and returned the knife to Chloe. They stood, holding hands, and gazed at their handiwork. CW+WK. There forever.

They walked back towards the community center, her arm around his waist, his around her shoulders, happy in their wordless connection.

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ONE GOOD MEMORY

Time passed, as it always must. Winter snows melted under spring rains. Walter helped Elsie prepare her garden beds for planting.

"Don't know why I still bother," the old woman grumbled, clearing away the dead husks of vegetables past, "Hardly seems worth the effort, rickety as I am."

Walter's mouth quirked. If anything, Elsie was in better shape than when he'd met her. She rarely used her cane anymore. "What will you plant?"

"Oh, the usual. Cukes, tomatoes, peppers, beans, lettuce, carrots, radishes, potatoes, squash, maybe a couple rows of corn. Not all at once, of course. Some of it's seasonal."

"Uhuh." Walter blinked. "That all?"

"That and the pumpkin patch."

"Right. Uh, we're going to eat all that?"

Elsie handed him a gardening hoe. "Sure, except for the pumpkins. What we don't eat, we'll can. What d'you think we've been eating all winter?"

Walter stared at the implement uncertainly. "Thought it was all bought."

"Shows what _you _know," she snorted, waved a garden stake for emphasis, "I never buy my veggies. Too many damn pesticides and whatnot. Plenty of other ways to keep the bugs away an' make the plants grow."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, knowing the _ma'am _would irritate the older woman.

Elsie scowled at him. "You're getting to be a real smartass, y'know that?"

"No, ma'am." Walter grinned.

"Just for that, _you_ can make the trip to Zane's to get the garden supplies." Elsie turned primly and headed for the house. "I'll write you up a list."

Walter gawped at her retreating back. "Wha-- _Me?_"

"Sure! You know where the store is."

"But," he searched for some excuse, "Chloe took the car to work."

"Well, that's why God invented bicycles," Elsie retorted over her shoulder, "You can ride a bike, can't ya?"

"Sure, bu--"

"There's a wagon in the shed you can hitch up to the bike to carry everything back." She mounted the back steps, turned to face the stunned redhead. "Fresh air, exercise, it'll do you good. Can't keep hidin' out on the fringes, Walt," she tapped the side of her head with a smirk, "Make ya strange."

Walter sighed in resignation. He figured out how to hitch the wagon to the bike--wondering if it would be large enough to hold everything on Elsie's list--then mounted up and headed off down the road. He had to admit he found the ride quite pleasant. Not like in New York, where many commuters viewed bike riders as annoyances or, in some cases, target practice. Here traffic was all but nonexistent. Warm spring air stirred his red hair and rippled his clothes. Gentle sunlight filtered through the overhanging branches of the budding trees. Birds in a riot of colors twittered their come-hither serenades to any prospective mates. Acrobatic squirrels leapt from branch to branch, chattering and throwing pebbles at the birds. The world was a busy place.

Walter pulled up in front of the general store and dismounted from the bike. His legs were a bit wobbly from the ride. Getting soft, he chided himself. He pushed through the glass door. _Jingle_ went the bell dangling overhead.

Zane waved from the counter. "Hey, Hiram. Elsie talk ya into doin' her annual seed buy?"

Walter tensed; Zane's use of his new name told him an out-of-towner was present. "Yes."

"Well, lemme know if you need anything."

"Thank you." Walter grabbed a cart and headed down the aisle marked _Lawn & Garden_. He pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket that Elsie had written her list on and began loading the cart with the desired items.

A man in a khaki uniform pushing an empty loading-dolly approached the counter. "Well, that's the last of 'em, Mr. Dobbins." He unhooked a clipboard from the back of the dolly, passed it to the older man to sign.

Zane scribbled his signature. "Thanks, Bill. Till next time?"

"You bet." Bill took back the clipboard and wheeled his dolly out the door, nodding hello to Walter in passing.

Walter relaxed; the delivery man must've been who Zane warned him about. He went back to his shopping; glanced at the list for the next item. What the--? That couldn't be right.

"Problem, Walt?"

Walter went to the counter, handed Zane the list. The store manager smirked. "Yeah, that's out back. C'mon." He handed the list back and beckoned the perplexed redhead to follow. They went out the back door to the open area where the larger gardening items and live plants were kept. Zane slapped his hand down on a pile of filled bags. "Here ya go, horse manure fresh from th' country," he grinned at Walter's obvious disgust, "Best natural fertilizer in the world. Use the stuff on my prize-winnin' roses."

Walter looked at the older man with a slight frown. "You grow roses?"

"_Prize-winnin'_ roses," he emphasized, as if it made a difference.

"Ah."

"I'll have the sacks delivered to the house, since they're too big for your cart," Zane assured him. "Oh! Couldya let Elsie know about my newest shipment?" He indicated a pallet loaded with five-foot-tall saplings, their roots balled inside burlap sacks. "Apple trees," the store manager beamed, "Like 'em?"

Walter shrugged. As a man who grew up in the city, one tree was pretty much like another to him.

Zane pulled out his pipe from his apron pocket, filled it from a pouch. "Yeah, thought she might want one in her backyard. 'Bout the only thing she loves to eat that she doesn't raise herself." He struck a match with his thumbnail, stuck the flame into the bowl, and puffed. The sweet scent of burning tobacco filled the air. "Any live plants on that list o' yours?"

Walter nodded distractedly. His intense blue eyes were fixed on a spot a few feet away from him.

Zane frowned, puzzled by the man's behavior. "You okay, Walt?"

The redhead slowly turned to meet the older man's gaze. He smiled. "I'm fine."

"Alright," Zane nodded, surprised by Walter's expression. He looked as if he'd found something he forgot he ever lost. As the redhead walked away, Zane went over to where he'd stood to see what the other man had been staring at. What he found only baffled him more; from a narrow crack in the pavement a solitary dandelion grew, yellow head bobbing happily in the breeze.

Walter finished his shopping, paid for his purchases, and pedaled home with the now loaded cart.

Later that night while he and Chloe lay in bed, Walter spoke. "Remembered something today."

Chloe turned her head to face him, smiled drowsily. "Oh? Something good?"

Walter nodded. "About my mother."

She blinked, surprised. "I thought you didn't have any good memories of her."

"Just one," he smiled softly, "Forgot it. Was reminded today."

Chloe shifted her position so that she lay on her side. She placed a gentle hand on Walter's chest. "What is it?"

Walter covered her hand with his own.

Walter was three years old. It was spring. The day was warm and unusually sunny for New York. Walter toddled after Mommy on their way home from the store. Mommy's arms were loaded with brown paper shopping bags. They passed a tobacconist's shop. The mingled sweet odors of its wares drifted from the open door and tickled little Walter's nose. He liked the way it smelled. He stopped and took a deep whiff.

"C'mon!" Mommy snapped, the crease between her plucked eyebrows deepening, "These bags're heavy."

Fearing Mommy's wrath, Walter hurried to catch up on chubby legs. They walked a little further, then something caught the boy's eye. Forgetting Mommy's earlier tone, Walter squatted on the cracked sidewalk to examine his discovery. It was a plant, green and leafy. Growing from the sidewalk! A long stem poked up and on its tip was a white puffball that looked as soft as cotton. It bobbed in the faint breeze.

Realizing her son had fallen behind yet again, Sylvia Kovacs turned with a sharp reprimand on her tongue, but the sight of the boy gazing in wonder at a simple weed jutting from the pavement gave the normally bitter woman pause. The expression on her son's open face reminded her of her own childhood, all but lost in the mists of time and hard experience, when every new discovery was a miracle of equal value, no matter how tiny or seemingly insignificant. Then all too soon she'd discovered the truth of the world; its unrelenting cruelty. She knew her boy would discover this for himself soon enough. But…maybe not today.

Walter jumped at the sudden appearance of Mommy, staring down at him. The boy tensed, expecting an angry shout, but instead Mommy knelt beside him and set her heavy bags aside. She looked at the little plant growing from the sidewalk, looked at Walter. "Know what that is?" she asked.

Walter shook his head.

"It's magic," Mommy whispered, a faint smile on her usually dour face, "If you blow all the seeds away in one try, you get to make a wish."

The boy's eyes widened. "Like birthday cake?"

"That's right. But you gotta make the wish in your head and never, ever tell anybody, or it won't come true." She reached down, plucked the long stem from the green leaves, held it before her son. "Blow."

Walter stared at the puffball, a perfect sphere of gauzy white. He filled his little lungs, pursed his lips, and _blew_. A thousand dandelion seeds were freed from their anchor and flew away. The boy watched them dance and whirl in the air. Like laughter. Like wishes.

Mommy smiled. "Make a wish."

Chloe smiled warmly at her husband's tale. "Did your wish come true?"

Walter nodded. "Took forty years, but it came true."

"What was it?"

He reached out to caress his wife's face. "I wished I would be happy."


	16. Recurrence

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Walter discovered an astonishing fact about himself; the city-born former vigilante enjoyed gardening. What's more, Elsie told him he was _good_ at it! Each day, when Chloe went off to work, Walter and Elsie would spend hours tending the cultivated rows. Walter learned the scent of sun-warmed earth, the rich and (surprisingly) not entirely unpleasant odor of compost made from horse manure and the mulched leaves they'd kept from the previous autumn. He watched in fascination as the first seedlings sprouted from the ground, learned which were the desired plants and which were weeds to be pulled, learned to aerate the soil and how much water to add to which plants. It was long and often tedious work, for which his precise mind was well suited. He found satisfaction in the knowledge that his hard work would have tangible results, provide sustenance for himself and his small yet growing family. Chloe often returned from work to find him still out there, on his knees between the rows, the straw hat Elsie insisted he wear perched atop his head. So engrossed at times he didn't notice his wife's arrival until her shadow blocked the sun and he would squint up at her smiling face.

Chloe was glad (and not a little relieved) to see her husband doing something useful that he obviously enjoyed. Liked how, when they embraced hello when she came home, he smelled of soil and sweat and sunblock. Liked especially the peaceful look in his eyes.

"We need to start thinking of setting up a room for the baby," she said one evening at the dinner table.

Elsie speared a tomato from her salad--the first of the season harvested from the vines Walter himself had planted--and chewed in thought. "Could probably use the sewing room," she pointed ceilingwards with her fork, "Haven't used it in years, plus it's right across the hall from your room."

Chloe blinked; she had vague recollections of a cluttered space full of rolls of fabric and balls of yarn. "Is it big enough?"

Elsie shrugged. "Think so."

They checked it out after dinner. Walter was reminded of the garment factory where he'd worked as a young man; even had the same type of sewing machine, an old Singer.

Chloe eyed the room speculatively. Once she discounted the clutter she realized the room itself was quite sizeable. It even had a picture window, which endeared her to the idea of housing her child within its walls.

"Shouldn't be too tough to clear all this out," Elsie said, "Can keep it in the attic till I figure out what to do with it all. Probably sell most of it."

Walter sighed; he could guess who'd get stuck with the heavy lifting. That Singer was an old model, black painted metal bolted to its stand. He was not looking forward to hauling it up the narrow attic stairs.

Chloe laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. _You know I'd help if I could_, her look seemed to say.

"Well!" Elsie clapped her hands together briskly, "Might as well make a start. No time like the present, right, Walt?" She grinned, then collected an armload of unused yards of fabric.

The three of them spent much of the evening clearing out the disused room, the women with the lighter items while Walter hauled the bulkier stuff. As night rolled around they managed to convey most of the room's contents to the dusty attic.

"Not bad," Chloe said, dusting off her hands, "all it needs is a fresh coat of paint, maybe some wallpaper."

"Furniture," Walter muttered.

"And toys," Elsie added, "clothes, humidifier, _de_humidifier, changing table…"

"God." Chloe pinched the bridge of her nose. "If it's gonna be this much work now, how hectic will things be once the baby's born?"

Elsie patted her niece's shoulder. "I'm sure it'll be worth it."

"Better be."

Later, after he brushed his teeth, Walter stepped out of the bathroom to find Chloe standing in front of the full length mirror in her underwear. She turned to the side, ran a hand over her belly. "Do I look thicker to you?"

A warning light went off in his head. _Don't answer! It's a trap!_ "Uh…"

She met his nervous gaze in the mirror's reflection and smiled. "C'mon, you know you can be honest with me."

"Maybe a little?" he ventured.

Chloe sighed. "Thought so." She pinched a roll of fat on her side, hardly enough to get a grip on.

Walter stepped up behind her, put his arms around her bare waist. "Thought that was the point," he murmured in her hair. Her behavior puzzled him; she never fretted over her appearance before.

Chloe let herself lean into his supportive embrace. "It is. Guess I'm just trying to distract myself from other worries."

"Got nothing to worry about." He held her snug against him. "You're healthy, strong."

"Old."

"_Mature."_

Chloe snorted in amusement. "Flabby."

"Solid."

Her snorts turned into giggles. Walter adored the sound; light and joyous. Chloe was the only person he knew who didn't sound like an idiot when she giggled. When they subsided, she crossed her arms over his, gripped his forearms with her slender hands. She looked at the two of them in the mirror and her expression sobered. "Not sure I'm ready for this," she confessed.

Walter hugged her tighter. "Me neither." In truth, he _knew_ he wasn't ready, and probably never would be.

"Out of our hands, though." The reflection of her pursed its lips, raised its eyebrows. "I blame you."

Walter blinked. "What?"

"_You're _the level-headed one. You should've known better than to jump without a parachute." Chloe grinned at the blush she saw in her husband's reflection. He abruptly unwound his arms from around her and walked away. His sudden absence left a cold sensation at her back.

"Won't trouble you anymore, if that's how you feel," he said in a low voice.

Chloe whirled to face him, afraid she'd gone too far. "Baby, I was just joking."

"No," Walter's voice held a petulant edge. He stood with his back to her, ramrod straight, arms crossed. "See how it is. Weaken my resolve with feminine wiles, then push off all the blame."

Chloe gawped. Was he _teasing _her? "W-well," she rallied, "it wasn't that difficult. The second you glimpse the slightest bit of cleavage you start drooling like a stray dog at a butcher's window."

Walter spun and glared at her with wide eyes. That was when she knew he was playing; if he were truly angry his eyes would've been narrowed. "Not true! Practically naked now and I'm not interested."

"Not interested!" she huffed, "Please! You can't take your eyes off me!"

"Impossible since you keep parading around--"

"_Oh!_" she stamped her foot, which caused certain parts of her anatomy to quake in a most interesting manner, "Fine! I'll just go and cover myself up, since you find me so disagreeable." She turned, marched in mock-rage towards the dresser…and a pair of strong, slender arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the floor. Chloe squealed in startled laughter as her husband carried her bodily across the room and dropped her onto the bed. She pretended to struggle as he descended upon her. Her wrists were pinned to either side of her head, giggles stifled by his mouth against hers.

Afterwards, they lay in a tangle of limbs, blissfully exhausted. Walter nuzzled his wife's neck. "This kind of fighting I like."

Chloe grinned. "Me too. 'Specially since I won."

Walter's eyes flew open. _"You?"_

"You just proved my point, didn't you?" she smirked.

He opened his mouth to protest, paused, closed it. Then the corner of his mouth quirked as an idea occurred to him. "Maybe that's what I _wanted _you to think."

Chloe laughed.

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The sky was slightly overcast, but the air remained pleasantly warm. Walter pedaled the bicycle down the semi-busy main street, signaled with an outthrust arm and turned left. He pulled up in front of Deb's diner, parked the bike against the building, and stepped through the glass-paned door. A Pat Benatar song blared from the jukebox speakers. Walter winced. Thankfully, the song was almost over. The diner bustled with hungry customers; the lunch hour rush. He wended his way through the filled tables to the counter where Chloe waited for him. It had been her idea to meet for lunch a couple of times a week, which Walter readily agreed to. He could never refuse the chance to spend more time with her. He kissed her in greeting and climbed onto the empty stool beside her.

"Hey there, Walt," Deb nodded from her post at the coffee machine, ever-present cigarette pinched between two fingers.

"Hello."

Viv, Deb's teenaged daughter who'd just graduated from high school the previous summer, handed him a menu with a flirtatious smile. Walter found the girl disquieting. Every time he came here to eat with Chloe, Viv would appear as if by magic and flutter her mascaraed eyes at him. Chloe thought it was hilarious.

"Hi, Walter," the girl's voice bordered on cooing. She leaned over the counter, offering the barest glimpse of her well-proportioned curves through the V of her uniform top's neckline. Walter quickly flipped open the menu and held it before his eyes. Chloe developed a sudden coughing fit.

"See anything you like?" Viv asked in a sultry tone.

Deb rolled her eyes at her daughter's antics. "Viv, honey, why don't you go an' get some more napkins from the storeroom?"

Viv's expression soured into the intense mixture of annoyance and disgust that only a teenager could achieve towards a parent, then shuffled off with a sarcastic, "Yes, _mother_."

The moment the girl vanished through the door Chloe collapsed into snorting laughter. Walter glared at his wife.

"Usual, Walt?" Deb asked, taking the menu from him. Walter nodded.

Chloe, once she'd regained her composure, asked, "Ever think of injecting some variety into your diet, Walter?"

"Why?" He wasn't picky; he ate whatever was put in front of him. The uncertainties of his childhood didn't allow for anything else. With his mother he could never be sure when she'd remember to buy any food, and later at the Home if he didn't scarf everything down damn quick the bigger kids would take it off his hands.

Their food arrived soon enough. Chloe's was some sort of pasta dish.

"What's that?"

"Tortellini." She speared one with her fork, popped it into her mouth.

Karl must be working the back, Walter concluded. The guy labored under the delusion that he was a chef rather than a short-order cook. Walter eyed her food with a grimace. "What's that stuff on it?"

"Pesto sauce. It's good," she added, defensive of her lunch's merits.

"It's green."

"Yes, Walter," Chloe responded patiently, "That's the color of pesto."

Walter shrugged and bit into his burger.

Once the meal was finished and the plates cleared away, Viv once again assaulted the poor redhead with her attentions. "Care for some pie, Walt? Made it myself."

Walter visibly perked up at this. Innuendos aside, Viv made one hell of a pie. "What kind?"

"Apple. Wanna...piece?"

He nodded, for once not put off by the girl's ill-concealed overture.

"Want cheese on that?" Deb brayed from the vicinity of the coffee maker.

The needle on Walter's mental turntable skipped a groove. "Cheese?"

"Hell yeah. Nothin' tastes like a slice of apple pie with a big ol' slab of cheddar melted on top."

_I'll bet._ "No, thanks." Even non-picky eaters had limits.

"Ooh! Count me in," Chloe called out excitedly. Viv nodded with cool politeness at her request, flashed a brilliant smile at Walter, and sauntered off.

Walter looked at his wife in dismay. "Knew pregnant women got weird cravings, but--"

"It's not a craving, Walter. I only get one craving." For pickles. But not just _any_ pickles; they had to be Vlassic baby kosher dill pickles (they went through six different brands and nearly as many types before they figured that out). Whenever the craving hit, Chloe would chomp through an entire jar of the things at one sitting. It was impressive. And a little gross. "I know it sounds weird," she continued, "but it's really good. You should try it."

Walter snorted. "Not a chance."

Viv returned with their desserts, then--thanks to the fortuitous arrival of a new customer--hurried off. Walter stared at the yellow and golden brown mess on Chloe's plate. What a terrible thing to do to a perfectly good pie! He dug into his own slice with his fork; still warm from the oven. Bliss.

They were halfway through when Chloe held a forkful of the cheesy monstrosity out to her husband, who leaned away as if she offered him a dead mouse.

"C'mon," she wheedled, "Just one taste and if you hate it I won't say anything more."

With utmost reluctance he took the offered bite into his mouth and chewed. Swallowed. His eyes met those of his amused wife whose mouth quirked. She held up her plate with its remaining half of her dessert. Her husband traded without a word.

As he dug into his disgustingly delicious cheese-and-apple pie, Walter's gaze was drawn to the diner's TV which sat bolted to a ledge above Deb's head. Some sort of news program was depicted on the grainy screen. He saw the unmistakable sight of the New York bomb crater, still a raw wound in the collective body and soul of the city, and before it a raised dais draped in patriotic colors. Upon the dais, behind its podium, loomed the hangdog visage of President Nixon spouting empty platitudes to the masses. Behind and to the right of the politician stood the smiling monster, Adrian Veidt. Walter's expression soured. Seeing this, Deb asked, "Want me to change the channel?"

The redhead tore his gaze from the screen, focused on the contents of his plate. His fork stabbed into it with excessive force. "Don't care."

Chloe looked at her husband with concern. He noticed this, tried to put on a reassuring smile which convinced neither of them.

The image flicked to that of a well-groomed man, hair coiffed to perfection, who flashed a row of capped teeth to the people at home. _"And in other news, a startling development occurred earlier this morning within the borough of Queens. Four masked and armed men robbed the Bank of America, killing two guards and wounding several bystanders in the process and making off with the better part of fifty thousand dollars in cash. Police chased the robbers' getaway car, but were reluctant to utilize sufficient force to stop them as they were driving through a heavily populated area. It seemed the criminals might escape when help, literally, fell from the sky. Channel Thirty-Six has obtained _exclusive_ footage of the event captured on a tourist's video camera."_

The news anchor's plastic grin was replaced with the gritty, wobbling imagery of the amateur videographer's lucky break. Walter found his eyes glued to the screen in spite of himself. The anchorman's voice intruded in narration.

"_There we see the bank robbers' vehicle turning the corner. Nearly ran down that old man and his dog…"_ A bent figure waved an angry fist at the retreating car; the top of said appendage blurred out by the network's censor. _"…they're barreling down the avenue…and…_there!_"_

A large oval shape swooped down from above. The picture listed nauseatingly as the excited tourist struggled to zoom in. As it came into focus Walter's eyes grew wide in astonishment, his mouth hung open. His fork, paused halfway to his open mouth, slipped from his numbed fingers. _Clang!_ It banged on the edge of the plate, flipped over the side of the counter, and clattered onto the floor.

Chloe's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my god…"

The car screeched (presumably, since the footage was without sound) to a halt. The panicked robbers poked their upper bodies out of the windows and fired their weapons at the unexpected hindrance to their escape. The hovering vessel's hull sparked with bullets which ricocheted and struck the surrounding pavement and even the robbers' car. After a few seconds the gunfire ceased and the four robbers abandoned the car to make their getaway on foot. Only one of them was hampered with a couple of overstuffed bags; the others, whether by forgetfulness or conscious decision, left their ill-gotten gains behind.

A circular opening appeared at the bottom of the vessel and two figures leapt down and landed athletically on the asphalt. One of them was a woman in skintight black and yellow Lycra, her head and face encased in a matching mask that left her eyes and mouth exposed. The other, a man, wore a brown and gold armored bodysuit and a flowing cape. The two masked figures split up, each taking on two of the fleeing robbers.

"_What you are witnessing here,"_ the anchorman's voice broke in, _"is an event which hasn't been seen since the ratification of the Keene Act. Two masked vigilantes, believed to be the second Nite Owl and Silk Spectre, engaged the robbers as they were escaping their police pursuers."_

Silk Spectre caught up with the robber toting the bags and took him down with a single back kick. Stray banknotes sprayed from the bags as the unconscious man fell on them. Silk Spectre then disarmed the second robber, who'd whipped around with a heretofore concealed handgun, breaking the man's wrist in the process. The heel of her hand shot up and struck the ski masked criminal a forceful blow to the nose. His head snapped back, body collapsed to the ground like a felled tree and just as motionless.

Meanwhile, Nite Owl chased after the remaining two robbers who chose flight over fight. He retrieved something from his utility belt; his hand snapped out as he flung an object after the fleeing men. The nearer one fell as his legs became entangled in the bola Nite Owl had thrown. The masked hero paused just long enough to deliver a knocking blow to his felled target, then resumed his pursuit of the last robber. He _leapt_, a long, graceful arc captured perfectly by the tourist's camera ("Holy shit!" someone in the diner yelled). His boots made contact with the robber's back and both men went sprawling. Nite Owl regained his feet in an instant and kicked the last robber in the head.

At that moment the blue-and-red strobes of police cars intruded on the screen. The two vigilantes quickly disappeared back into the hovering Owlship and blasted off into the sky, their departure as sudden as their arrival.

"_As you can see, the two vigilantes eluded authorities once they had subdued the bank robbers. This marks the first known resurgence of masked vigilantism since the Keene Act was passed. Until now, the only known practitioner of such illegal activities was the notorious Walter Kovacs, a.k.a. Rorschach, who had escaped from custody in Sing-Sing last Halloween and is still listed by officials as At Large, though many speculate he was among the millions who perished in New York on the night of the attack…"_

Two still photographs appeared side-by-side on the TV screen. One was Kovacs's mug shot, battered and bruised, eyes expressionless. The other was a headshot of Rorschach, the black blobs of his mask arranged in such a way that it resembled a gruesome jack-o-lantern grin.

"…_The fact that there have been no violent crimes matching Rorschach's M.O. all these months later would indicate that rumors of the vigilante's death may _not_ be exaggerated. Still, in light of recent events, authorities have vowed to redouble their efforts in locating and, if possible, recapturing the escaped masked 'hero'. Citizens who have any information regarding Rorschach's current whereabouts are advised to contact their local police or call the 800 number listed at the bottom of the screen. All calls are confidential and there _is_ the offer of a cash reward for any and all information leading to Rorschach's capture…"_

"Oh, Christ." Chloe's eyes roamed the crowded diner. Most of the customers were too absorbed in their meals and conversations to have picked up on the news broadcast, but a few were just as enthralled by the flickering screen as Walter and some were even eyeing the redhead speculatively. No out-of-towners, thank goodness, but at the moment Chloe wasn't sure her husband's unproven local ties would be enough to keep him safe. Someone who still possessed doubts as to Walter's character might just decide to call that 800 number and drop an anonymous hint.

Chloe managed to tear Deb's attention away from the TV long enough to pay the check. She put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "C'mon," she murmured.

Walter jumped at her touch, so absorbed was he with the stunning news. The two of them rose from their stools and exited the diner at a reasonable pace. Outside, Chloe met Walter's gaze with her own…and felt her anxiety stab deep into her heart. She couldn't read him. After all the time they'd spent together, how easily she learned to interpret the brief expressions that flitted across his face, Chloe suddenly couldn't tell what was going on in Walter's head. His face was a total blank, his eyes emotionless as glass. Chloe hesitated, reached out to grasp his hand. His fingers curled around hers in an absent-minded way.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he responded evenly, giving nothing away. "Should head back."

"Yeah. Me too." She kissed him, which he returned with the same distracted air as he did holding her hand. Walter then pulled away from her, got his bike from where it leaned, and mounted it in a single, smooth movement. Chloe watched as her husband pedaled away from her, head full of fresh worries. The food she'd eaten lay heavy in her stomach. Her heart felt as if a fist slowly tightened around it. She didn't know which frightened her more: the thought that someone might turn him in, or the idea that seeing his former comrades back in action might have stirred up old desires in Walter. The result was the same for either possibility; the loss of a husband. Chloe trembled, hugged herself. High overhead, the cloud cover thickened.


	17. To the Yonder Tree

**A/N: **Sorry this chappie's so brief, but I couldn't think of any way to extend it. Once it was written I felt it said all it needed to say. Don't fret; the next one will be longer.

The lines of poetry Chloe quotes are from "The Yonder Tree" by Joshua Weiner. On the surface, it seems like a lighthearted nursery rhyme in the style of "Old McDonald" or "This Old Man," but once the words sank in I felt a vague uneasiness that I thought fit with Chloe's state of mind.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetic works of Joshua Weiner. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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When Chloe got home that evening she didn't see Walter in the garden, nor did she find him in the house. When asked, Elsie responded, "He's been quiet all afternoon, even for him. Think he said he'd take a walk, or something."

Chloe wandered into the living room, plopped down on the couch. Spread out on the coffee table was the day's newspaper. She picked it up, folded it to the front page. There was a blurry still of the Owlship taken from the video footage, and there in the lower right corner of the page was a sidebar about Rorschach. It included the same two pictures of him she saw on TV as well as a couple of artist renderings to depict how he might look with a beard, or longer hair, or _dyed_ hair. A wry smirk twisted her mouth; Walter hadn't bothered with any of that nonsense. He looked just the same as his mug shot, sans bruises. The amount offered in reward for his capture had three zeroes at the end. Chloe wadded the paper up, dropped it onto the floor. Slouched in the sofa, she stared at the blank TV screen.

She should've known something like this would happen. Things were going so well for them, something was bound to come along and screw things up. Anger crept over the tired woman. Hadn't they been through enough? Hadn't _he_ been through enough? Was it really so much to ask that they be allowed to settle down to menial rural life and raise their baby without fear of some sadistic fate coming along and crapping all over them? _How much more are we expected to take, lord?_ As if he would answer.

Chloe abruptly rose from her seat and headed for the door. "Getting some air, Els," she called over her shoulder, then all but stomped out before her aunt could respond. Heavy clouds turned the sky into a slate-gray dome. Just what she needed on top of her bad mood, a damn storm. She trudged past the garden, through the little wooded area that surrounded the house. No destination in mind, just a rapid march to burn off some of her anger. Though Chloe knew once the anger subsided anxiety would rise up in its place. The image of Walter's blank visage flashed through her mind over and again. It frightened her that she had no idea what her husband felt about all this; the sudden reappearance of his former masked comrades, the authorities' redoubled efforts to seek him out as a result. Was he afraid? Or did the sight of the two vigilantes in action reawaken the need in him to do the same? Had Chloe been fooling herself the whole time, thinking someone like Walter--like Rorschach--could ever be content to spend his days in a sleepy little country town raising cucumbers and changing diapers? Did she really believe he would allow himself to be _domesticated?_ What a pathetic joke! She kicked a stone in frustration, watched it skitter away and disappear into the undergrowth. Her eyes were drawn to something farther ahead; the oak tree. Chloe'd walked farther than she thought.

Spring was kind to the ancient oak. Its canopy was lush and green, shading the ground in a huge circle. It looked the way artists painted oaks; an all-encompassing leafy embrace. Old and patient.

"'Bought myself a ticket,'" Chloe recited to herself, "'the ticket freed me, I flew through a storm to the yonder tree. I said to myself _now I can see, now I can see._'" Funny, she hadn't thought of that poem in years; forgot that she even knew it. "'Found myself a woman, the woman pleased me, I followed my woman to the yonder tree. The woman said _maybe, baby._' Maybe."

She remembered how the words left her with a vaguely haunted feeling. A sensation which suited her now. Thunder rumbled in the distance, too far to see its lightning precurser. Chloe shivered. "'Bought myself a knife, the knife pleased me, I cut two names into the yonder tree. The knife said _hungry, angry. _The woman said _maybe, baby…_I said to myself _now I can see, now I can see._'"

A figure stepped out from behind the oak's broad trunk, hands in its pockets. Chloe would know that stride anywhere. She paused. Walter's back was to her; probably didn't know she was there. Chloe resumed her walk, slower this time. She didn't know why she wanted to keep her approach quiet. Did she hope to catch him talking to himself? Listen in as he plotted his escape from Jubilation? _Christ, Chloe, you're being ridiculous!_ She knew that, but the worry remained. Thoughts were rational; emotions weren't. Times like this Chloe envied the "dumb" animals whose minds weren't cluttered with complex ideas to conflict with their basic feelings. Ambivalence was the human condition.

"'Bought myself a stone,'" she whispered, "'the stone pleased me, I placed my stone beneath the yonder tree. The stone said _good-night, this night, all night._'"

_Rumble…_ Chloe jumped at the sound. Still distant. Perhaps it would pass them by. She snorted; only if their luck changed.

The noise must've carried, because Walter glanced at her over his shoulder. His clear eyes regarded her for a brief moment, then returned to their previous vigil of the angry sky. Chloe moved to stand beside him, steps small and wary. He gave no reaction to her nearness, either in welcome or rejection. His neutrality aggravated her unease.

"You okay?" she asked in a timid voice which embarrassed her.

Walter nodded. "Was thinking."

"About what?" She braced herself.

A subtle smile touched his features. "How funny things are. Once thought Nite Owl was a pathetic failure. Weak, because he chose to give up the mask, live as plain old Daniel Dreiberg."

"Now you're the one who's given up," Chloe finished for him, "While your friend runs around in his owl costume beating up bank robbers."

Another nod. His upturned eyes remained fixated on the subtle roil of the gray overhead. "Would've beaten the hell out of anyone that said I'd end up like this. Never expected to end up anywhere, except dead." There was no bitterness to his words. His tone was matter-of-fact. Chloe wished she could detect some sort of emotion from him. Any kind.

She licked her lips. "Do you…miss it?"

Now he looked at her, eyes calm and face neutral. "Do you miss Byron?"

The question hurt, until Chloe realized it wasn't asked in malice. Did she miss her first husband, who'd died on a stormy night like this one was shaping up to be? Of course she did. She would always miss him. But Byron was gone. Just as Rorschach was gone? Was that what Walter was telling her?

"I miss him every day."

"But he belongs in the past. And this is now." Walter smiled then. A melancholy smile that creased the corners of his mouth and eyes almost as if he were tired.

That was when Chloe understood. She couldn't find any emotion in his face because Walter hadn't _known_ what to feel. That was why he spent the rest of the day wandering around, trying to work out the clutter in his head. He needed to figure out what he felt before anything could show. What Chloe mistook for withdrawal was simply confusion.

"'I said to myself _what did I see? I thought I could see…_'"

Walter's brow furrowed. "What?"

"N-nothing," she stammered, not realizing until that moment that she'd spoken aloud. Chloe smiled.

_Crack! Rumble._

She jumped, grabbed her husband's arm. "M-maybe we should get back to the house." _With its sturdy lightning rod._

Walter suddenly pointed with his free hand to the gray heavens. "Look."

In spite of herself, Chloe looked. And gasped.

Flashes of light flickered through the churning thunderhead like hidden giant fireflies. A web of electricity crackled across the cloud's surface, gone in an instant. Beautiful and terrible. The fireworks of nature.

"Oh…wow…"

An explosive thunderclap nearly frightened her out of her skin. Chloe uttered a short scream and buried her face in Walter's shoulder. His arms went around her, strong and protective. "It's alright, Chloe. Everything's okay." After a little while he gently disentangled himself from her fearful grip and took her hand. "Come on."

Chloe didn't hesitate to follow his lead. The couple ran through the tall spring grass that waved in the strong winds like ripples on the ocean; up and down the bumpy hills to the stand of trees that surrounded their home. They dashed through flailing branches that slapped at their faces and snagged their clothing, buffeted by the wakening storm. Despite her terror, Chloe's face split in a giddy smile and a breathless laugh escaped her lungs. She was behind Walter, gripping his hand, running together in long, powerful strides. Though she could not see his face, she knew at that moment that he was grinning.

They emerged from the trees as the first fat raindrops fell. Their shoes pounded up the porch steps as rain pounded down from the sky. Sprawled under the porch's sheltering overhang, Nixon cracked an eye to observe the humans rush to the front door. So much excitement over a little weather. The dog snorted and resumed his prolonged nap.

The couple shut the screen door behind them, then went no further. They stood behind the flimsy mesh barrier, arms around each other, and witnessed the storm's awesome wrath. Chloe trembled and started with every flash and crack, terrified, but not mortally so. A strange excitement tempered her fear, as well as the reliable solidity of the man she clung to. Their faces bore identical expressions of scared wonder, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. They panted from their mad dash to the house as well as from exhilaration. Their hearts stuttered in their chests.

"Sky's so open here," Walter murmured. Chloe felt his voice reverberate through him, against her own body. "Never would have seen all this in the city, with the buildings." He turned to his wife and smiled.

And the last of Chloe's worry melted away.


	18. Still So Much Good

**A/N:** Some pretty intense subject matter in this chapter, and not the fun kind of intense. Be prepared for brutality.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the poetic works of Lord Byron. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Walter turned off the shower, shoved the curtain aside, and stepped out of the tub. He dried himself off with a thick towel, then wrapped it around his waist. He exited the master bathroom to find Chloe waiting for him beside the bed dressed in her old blue terrycloth robe. Her arms were crossed before her, a stern expression on her face.

"You neglected to mention an important fact," she said in a you're-in-trouble voice.

Walter hesitated. "About what?"

"You never mentioned that we missed your birthday." That was true. They were well into April; his birthday had come and gone almost a month ago.

The redhead frowned in puzzlement. "Didn't think it was important."

"Not important!" she exclaimed, as if he'd told her he believed oxygen was optional, "You don't think surviving another year's worth celebrating?"

He shrugged. "Just another day. What difference does it make? Birthday's just an excuse to seek empty praise and quick gratification."

Chloe placed her hands on her hips. "Frivolous, in other words."

"Yes."

"So, if I told you when my birthday was, you wouldn't bother to do anything about it?"

Walter realized, too late, that he'd walked right into it. "Well, uh…"

"If that's the way you feel about it, I guess we shouldn't bother with a belated celebration." No question about it, Chloe was peeved.

Walter sighed, held up one hand in a placating gesture while the other continued to hold the towel in place. "Just don't want anyone making a fuss over me. I really don't care about my birthday."

Chloe pouted. "Well, darn. Then I guess you don't wanna open your present." She then untied the robe's belt and pulled it open to reveal her body lightly concealed within a translucent red negligee. Her mouth curved into a smirk at her husband's gobsmacked reaction. "Looks like _part _of you likes it."

Walter's bugged eyes followed his wife's gaze to the tented front of the towel. A brilliant red flush traveled up his bare torso to his face. His startled eyes returned to the vision before him. He'd seen Chloe naked many times--always a pleasurable experience--but seeing those familiar curves partially concealed beneath a layer of gauzy fabric somehow made them all the more enticing. The round hips, the pooched stomach (more pronounced now that she was in her second trimester), the twin mounds of her breasts. He could just make out the darker circles of her areolas through the gown's flimsy material.

Chloe let him drink in the sight for a moment. "Well," she sighed, "since you don't care about birthdays, I guess I'll just have to put this away." She started to close her robe.

Walter suddenly found his voice. "Don't you dare."

Chloe grinned, let the robe slide off her body onto the floor. Terrycloth whispered a second time as Walter released his hold on the towel. Naked, he approached the immodestly clad woman. His hands found their way around her waist, the fabric of her negligee cool and slick against his palms. He slid his hands up her body and cupped her breasts. He felt the hardness of her nipples through the gauzy material. Chloe pressed herself to him; the gown's fabric slid against his erection. He shivered.

"Like it?" Chloe murmured, lips close to his.

Walter leaned towards her. "Just what I always wanted."

"A red nightie?" she teased.

"You." He crushed his mouth to hers, plundered with lips and tongue. The room filled with the sounds of heavy breaths and stifled moans. They tumbled onto the bed, rolled upon the mattress until Chloe found herself on top. She sat up, straddling him, and started to remove her negligee.

Walter's hands gripped hers. "No. Leave it on." His blue eyes stared into hers with piercing intensity. Chloe nodded and released her hold on the garment, which settled into place against her figure. She raised herself up on her knees, maneuvered herself over his straining member. She lowered herself onto it with agonizing slowness. Walter moaned and arched against her, hands gripping her thighs with bruising force. Chloe settled her weight upon him with a sigh. She relished the familiar fullness of him inside her. Her hands traced the curves and planes of his muscular torso, while his hands roamed over her silken-clad body. Chloe's hips began to move. Walter pulled her down against him to feel the gown's fabric slide against his bare skin. He kissed her neck, her delicate collarbone. Listened to her panting breaths. The pronounced bulge of her growing belly rubbed against his flat stomach.

Their bodies rolled on the bed, positions switched. Walter gazed down on Chloe's flushed face and kissed her full lips. He then hooked his hands under her knees, lifted her legs onto his shoulders. Chloe expected him to quicken their pace, but instead he moved his hips in slow, gentle thrusts. Chloe gripped his forearms, the only parts of him she could easily reach, and met his ocean blue gaze with her own. The tingle of her approaching climax remained steady, held at bay by her husband's unhurried pace. Frustration grew in her. She tried to move, to urge him to go faster, but Walter held her hips firmly in place.

"You're teasing me," she accused him with a scowl.

Walter grinned. "Am I?" He ground against her, eliciting a low moan from his wife. The sound made him tremble and thrust into her harder. "Can't…control myself with you."

Chloe uttered a short laugh. "Then you're faking it awful well. Ohhh…" She arched her back. Walter could see the outlines of her nipples through the negligee's thin fabric. A bead of sweat trickled from her collarbone into the hollow of her throat. She raised her arms to grasp the bars of the headboard so tightly her knuckles paled. Walter began to thrust in earnest. The sight of her body's movements mesmerized him. Her head rolled back to expose her long neck. She cried out in short gasps, then tensed as her orgasm overwhelmed her. Walter felt her tighten around him and let his tenuous control slip away. He pounded into her, heard fresh cries escape her throat, felt her pulse around him again. He roared as his climax struck.

They lay in a deliciously exhausted heap, Walter's head pillowed against Chloe's breasts, still clad in her gauzy negligee. She stroked his sweat-dampened red hair and murmured, "Happy belated birthday."

Walter smiled, then his eyes opened as a thought occurred. He raised his heavy head to look at her, a faint crease between his eyes. "How did you know? Never told you when my birthday was."

Chloe bit her lip. "Um, there was a new wanted poster in the post office."

His expression sobered. "Oh."

"Nobody from out of town ever uses our post office," she hastened to reassure him, "And even if they did, nobody ever actually _looks_ at those things." She deliberately neglected to take into consideration all the TV and newspaper coverage of the police's renewed interest in the escaped vigilante.

He pursed his lips, clearly unconvinced. "This your way of breaking it to me gently?"

"No!" Chloe exclaimed, offended, "I meant what I said earlier. This was my present for you." She grabbed a wad of the gown's fabric for emphasis.

Guilt crept into Walter's features. "Sorry."

"It's okay." She rested her palm against his cheek, rough with stubble as always.

"Worries me. All this attention or Rorschach," he sighed, "Hoped they'd given up, decided I was dead."

"Didn't you have plenty of worries before?"

He shook his head. "Never had so much to lose before."

Chloe planted a kiss on his furrowed brow. "It'll be alright, baby."

"You really believe that?"

"If I didn't I'd lose my mind."

Walter smirked. "Thought that already happened."

"Huh?" She frowned.

"Married me, didn't you?"

Chloe giggled. "Touché."

Walter slid off of her, but still held her close. His hand traveled over her growing middle. "Be awkward after a while."

"But not impossible," Chloe grinned. She placed her hand over his. "Sometimes I think I can feel it move."

"Tiny still."

"Yeah, but almost fully formed. It's even got fingerprints now."

Walter's eyebrows arched. "Really?"

"Uhuh. At this point it mostly just needs to grow so its lungs can develop strong enough to breathe once it's born." She smiled. "We should be able to see a lot at the next sonogram."

Walter had to admit he was curious. He pressed his ear to her stomach. _Are you awake in there?_ He wondered if they would be able to see its gender. He really hoped for a boy; not because of any sense of chauvinism, but because he couldn't for the life of him think of a girl's name. Every time he gave it some thought the names that came up seemed somehow _wrong_.

"Do you think it'd be weird," Chloe suddenly asked, "if we named it Byron if it's a boy?"

Walter looked at her. The corner of his mouth quirked. "Weird compared to what?"

"I'm serious, Walter. I wanna know what you think of it."

He shrugged. "It's a good name. Like the poet."

Chloe smirked. "You don't strike me as a guy who reads much poetry."

"Oh?" He leaned in close to murmur into her ear, "'She walks in beauty, like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies;/And all that's best of dark and bright/Meet in her aspect and her eyes.'"

Chloe's eyes widened. "Wow. I'm impressed."

Walter snorted. "Had a teacher in grammar school made everyone memorize it. Thought it was soppy and unrealistic."

"You were that cynical in _grammar school?_" Even though she knew he had a rough childhood, there were times Walter mentioned things that still surprised her. "How old were you?"

"Eight or nine."

"_Nine?_ Jeez! Going on forty, I suspect." She squinted at him. "How old're you now?"

Walter grinned. "None of your business."

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Bill the delivery guy wheeled a dolly-load of 2 liter Coke bottles towards the general store's unloading area and paused as a couple exited their car and headed for the front entrance. What grabbed his attention at first was the fact that the couple was interracial--a rare sight in these rural towns--but as the red-haired man got closer Bill couldn't help but think there was something familiar about the guy. With a puzzled shake of his head, Bill resumed his work.

Inside the store, Walter added a sack of Sweet Chariot sugar cubes to the shopping cart. Chloe quirked an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. Beside the sack of sugar was the main reason for their visit; a baby crib Chloe had ordered for the now empty sewing room that would become the baby's nursery. She and her husband were going to try and assemble it together later that night, and probably drive each other batty in the process of arguing over the instructions. Certain to be a marvelous evening.

Chloe snagged an extra large jar of pickles.

"Just bought one four days ago!" Walter said in dismay.

"And it ran out _two_ days ago," Chloe retorted. The redhead rolled his eyes.

They wheeled their cart to the checkout counter where Zane was signing the deliveryman's clipboard. "Hey, Chloe, Hiram," the older man beamed, "Be with you in a sec."

"No rush." Chloe leaned against the cart's handle and perused the magazine rack. Walter, meanwhile, perused the candy rack. "Don't even think about it," she warned him.

Walter threw her an annoyed glance. "Just looking."

The deliveryman, who'd been watching the couple's interaction, suddenly snapped his fingers. "I got it! You know who you remind me of?" He pointed at the startled redhead. "That crazy masked guy the cops're looking for. Rorschach!"

"That's what _I_ keep tellin' him," Zane jumped in before the panic had a chance to set, "But he won't believe it."

Bill shook his head in amazement. "You kiddin'? You could be his long lost twin, y'know that?"

Walter, having recovered from his initial shock, shrugged. "Maybe I should turn myself in."

"If _I_ turn you in," Chloe added, "I could finally afford that trip to Rome."

Zane and Bill laughed, then Bill turned his dolly and headed for the door. "Well, gotta finish the route. Nice meetin' you 'Rorschach.'" He grinned and winked. Once he'd gone the others visibly relaxed.

"Shit, that was close." Chloe ran a nervous hand through her long hair. She looked at the store manager in gratitude. "Thanks for the save, Zane."

"No problem, hon." The older man smiled.

Walter stared through the store's glass front at the retreating delivery van. "Could still call police."

"Nah!" Zane waved a dismissive hand, "Bill's an ordinary guy. Ordinary fellas never expect t' see an escaped con buying groceries." He started to tally up their purchases. "Oh! Speakin' of escaped cons, didya hear about the bus accident?"

"You mean that transport?" Chloe asked. Walter remained puzzled.

"Couple days ago," Zane explained with all the relish of a born rumormonger, "the driver of a bus transportin' some convicts had a heart attack 'n rolled the vehicle. Buncha cons escaped. Most of 'em were recaptured, but there's still three missing. Real nasty ones, too. Murderers 'n such, runnin' loose in the countryside."

"In bright orange jumpsuits," Chloe added, "With no money and their faces plastered all over the TV. They'll get caught."

Walter looked at her. "_My_ face is all over the TV."

"But you're not wearing a jumpsuit," she countered, as if that single detail made all the difference.

"Relax, Walt," Zane grinned, "Everyone thinks that stuff about you's just hype. Make the cops look like they're on the ball. No one really believes you're still alive."

"That's comforting," Walter lied.

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It was shaping up to be a bad month for storms. All three of the little blue house's residents stayed up late into the night watching the weatherman on the TV warn them about hail the size of marbles and falling trees.

"Howl and blast. Blast and howl," Elsie muttered.

"Dammit," Chloe hissed and unraveled yet another attempt at knitting a baby blanket, "Keeps coming out lopsided."

"Why're you even messing with that?" her aunt questioned.

"Because expectant mothers are supposed to knit!"

Elsie and Walter exchanged looks. They knew Chloe was just trying to distract herself from the chaos outside. Bad as it was at the moment, they couldn't blame her.

"Might hafta spend the night in the root cellar," the older woman sighed. If they could find room among all the canning jars. She once found a jar of beets down there dated 1936. At least, they _looked_ like beets.

Beside the front door, Nixon sprawled like a lumpy rug. Once allowed inside to shelter from the storm, the lazy dog resorted to his most trusted activity, which was _in_activity. Only the occasional snore assured the humans there was still some sort of life in him. He didn't even twitch when a particularly loud _ROAR_ rattled the glass panes in the windows and all the lights flickered out.

Walter immediately lit the candles they'd kept at the ready while Elsie switched on the battery-powered radio. _"…seek shelter immediately!"_

"Alrighty then." The old woman stood. "Let's go."

Chloe grimaced and gathered up her disastrous knitting while Walter collected blankets and pillows from the bedrooms. As they headed for the cellar door, Nixon suddenly sat up and scratched at the door.

Elsie looked at the animal in dismay. "You need to go _now?_"

The dog whined, reared up on his hind legs, and rested his forepaws against the door. This was not his typical gotta-pee behavior. Concerned, Walter set the bedding down on the couch and went to the door. Nixon moved aside so he could open it, but made no move to leave the house. Walter stared into the raging weather. Strobes of lightning illuminated the black night to reveal wildly flailing trees and blowing debris. But it was a different kind of movement that caught the redhead's eye. He peered out into the storm. There, electric flickers showed a figure in the distance running headlong through the waving grass, clad in a long white T-shirt. The slight figure tumbled forward, regained its feet, and ran on. Headed towards the house.

Walter pushed open the screen door and ran out into the storm, ignoring the startled calls of the women behind him. Raindrops like needles stung his skin and soaked him within seconds. He plodded through the clinging wet grass to the approaching figure. Through the howl of the wind, he thought he heard a scream.

The women waited anxiously by the door as Walter hurried back with something in his arms. It was only when he climbed the steps onto the porch that they saw his burden was a girl. It was Nancy Henderson, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Kendra Henderson who lived less than a mile away. The girl wore only a long T-shirt which she obviously slept in. Her soaked hair was matted with leaves, bare legs and feet cut and scraped from her panicked flight. A large bruise marred the left side of her face. Walter lay the shivering girl on the couch while Chloe hurried to retrieve the first-aid kit.

"My god," Elsie gasped, "What happened?"

Walter shook his head. "Don't know. Girl was hysterical. Couldn't understand."

Chloe returned with the distinctive white box with its red cross, knelt on the floor beside the sobbing girl to tend her minor wounds.

Elsie touched the girl's shoulder. "What happened, Nancy?"

"Th-they…" the child stammered, eyes wide and unseeing with terror, "They're gonna…k-kill… _They're gonna kill 'em!_" It took several minutes for the hysterical girl to choke out her story. Her home was invaded, her family bound and terrorized. Michael, Nancy's older brother, had left for college weeks ago, leaving only herself, her mother, and her older sister in the house. Their attackers tied them all up, but Nancy managed to wriggle free of her bonds and snuck out the back door.

While she relayed these terrible events, Walter's face grew cold. "How many?" he asked in a tone devoid of emotion.

"Th-three," Nancy managed. Walter was out the door before she'd finished uttering the last syllable.

"Walter!" Chloe shouted and ran to the open door, "Stop! Let us call Hank to take care of it! Walter!" But the storm had swallowed him up.

Walter ran, heedless of lighting or rain, or the first stinging hailstones that plummeted from the raging sky. His legs pumped tirelessly. Rage boiled inside him, familiar as an old friend. The cozy off-white house loomed into view, windows alight. He slowed as he drew near, crept up to one of the lit windows and peered cautiously inside. Kendra Henderson lay on the floor of her bedroom, curled in a fetal position, hands tied behind her back and ankles bound, duct tape wound around her head for a gag. What he could see of her face was mottled and swollen with bruises, her nostrils crusted with blood. But her eyes were open and horribly alert.

She was not alone. A gaunt man paced the bedroom floor, half empty bottle of scotch in one hand and a large kitchen knife in the other. He was dressed in a rumpled orange jumpsuit. Walter watched as the man took a swig from the bottle and stared down at the helpless woman. A brown stream shot from the man's pursed lips and struck Kendra's face. She cringed from the liquid's sting, much to the man's apparent amusement.

Walter stepped away from the window, found the back door swinging in the harsh wind. It's latch was broken; someone kicked it open. Walter entered the house and made his way through the dim hall to the door of the room he knew Kendra lay behind. On a little table lay a clawed hammer with a few loose nails beside it, used in some minor household project and then forgotten. Walter hefted the tool in his hand, reached for the doorknob with the other. He opened it the barest crack and peeked inside. The gaunt man's back was to the door, a stroke of luck for the redhead. He let the door swing open and stepped purposefully into the bedroom. Kendra's eyes widened as the newcomer walked up to the jumpsuited man and swung the hammer in a hard blow. Thunder cracked at the same instant as the gaunt man's skull. He dropped like a felled tree, knife clattering on the floor and scotch bottle rolling from his slackened fingers, spilling its contents. Walter brought the hammer down on the man's head again--_crack_--and again--_crunch_. Kendra squeezed her eyes closed to blot out the horrible sight.

Walter used the kitchen knife to cut the woman free of her bonds. "Stay here," he whispered harshly, "I'll take care of the others."

"They have my babies," she quavered, tears spilling from her eyes.

"Nancy's safe. I'm going to help Rhoda." Seeing the panic in the woman's eyes, Walter handed her the knife. "Stay here until sheriff comes."

She nodded, clutched the knife's handle as she might a crucifix. Her eyes she kept averted from the corpse on the floor with its spreading pool of blood.

Out in the hall once again, Walter tread softly through the house, hammer at the ready. A momentary lull in the storm allowed far more disturbing sounds to reach his ears; muffled screams and cruel laughter. He followed the sounds to the living room, saw what the two men were doing to fifteen-year-old Rhoda Henderson. A tremor ran through Walter's body; a reaction that never would have happened to Rorschach. The rage burned through his veins and turned his vision red. He didn't plan, only reacted. Walter stormed into the room and brought the hammer down on the nearest man's head. The other man straightened, still on his knees, and gawped at the intruder's snarling face. Walter brought the hammer around in a backhand swing before the man had a chance to react; its deadly claws ripped out his throat. The second man toppled onto his side, gurgling and clutching his ruined throat. Walter raised the hammer again…

…and staggered as a blow landed on his own head. He spun to face his attacker; the first man, blood running from his right ear. He clutched a brass candlestick in his meaty fist. "Motherfucker," he spat, raised his weapon. Walter lifted the bloodied hammer and prepared himself for battle.

"_Freeze!"_

Sheriff Henry Dobbins entered the living room with his gun unholstered and pointed at the remaining convict. Deputy Kyle Hauper stood at his side with a scatter gun also pointed at the jumpsuited figure, eyes wide at the terrible sight before him. Henry's own expression remained composed, his voice and aim steady. "Drop your weapon, get on your knees, and put your hands on top of your head."

The escaped con hesitated a brief second, then tossed the candlestick aside. He dropped to his knees with a disdainful sneer and placed his hands atop his head, fingers interlaced. Walter, however, stood with the hammer still raised, poised to strike a fatal blow.

"Put it down, Walt," Henry ordered, "We can handle this."

"Do you see what they did to her?" the redhead asked in a voice barely above a whisper. Behind him lay the huddled, whimpering form of Rhoda. Young Kyle swallowed. Henry's cool façade cracked a fraction. "Yeah."

"Doesn't deserve to live."

"Fuck you!" the convict spat, "I know who you are, ya fuckin' freak. Think you're better'n me 'cause you put on a fuckin' mask? _You_ should be wearin' a jumpsuit same as me."

"Shut up," Henry snapped, turned his attention back to Walter, "I don't wanna fight you on this, Walt. Put the hammer down. Just put it down and walk out that door."

Air rushed in and out of his lungs, the hammer wavered above him. "No…"

"Don't just stand there, ya dumb pigs! Arrest me!"

"Shut up!" Kyle shouted, tightening his grip on the scatter gun.

"Arrest me! Take me in, goddammit!"

"Shut your fucking mouth!"

"Put the hammer down, Walter!"

"No! Men get arrested, _dogs_ get put down--"

It happened so fast, so unexpectedly. The four shouting men didn't notice Kendra shuffle into the room, knife in hand. Didn't see her glassy eyes come to rest on her weeping, violated daughter, then swivel onto the kneeling man in the orange jumpsuit. Remained unaware of her presence until she reached out, yanked the man's head back by his greasy hair, and took the knife to his throat.

The others watched, stunned into silence, as the dying man writhed on the floor. Kendra let the knife fall from her slackened grip. _Clatter._ She went to sit on the floor beside her daughter, lifted the sobbing girl's head onto her lap. She stroked Rhoda's matted hair. "Shh. Mama's got you, baby. Mama's here."

Walter stared at the wounded family; the hammer hung forgotten at his side. Henry stepped forward, took the bloodied tool from the redhead's unresisting grip. "Walter," he said quietly.

Walter turned to the taller man.

"Go home, Walter. It's better for you and Chloe if you're not involved in this."

He nodded dully, headed for the open front door. As the redhead walked past, Kyle stumbled into the nearest corner and vomited. Outside, the storm had slackened, but rain continued to fall. Walter walked listlessly through the wet grass towards home, numb from the horrors he'd witnessed. He didn't even notice when he reached home until Chloe rushed out to embrace him.

She gasped at the blood spattered across his arms, his face. "Oh, god. Are you okay? Were you hurt? What happened?"

Walter stared past her shoulder at the house. Reg, one of the town's part-time deputies, descended the porch steps carrying Nancy Henderson swaddled in a blanket and placed her in his car. He would take her to Lila's, Walter knew. Kendra and Rhoda--especially Rhoda--would require more intensive care than the local doctor could provide. They would be sent to Lovettesville's hospital.

"Walter." Chloe cupped his face in both hands and forcibly turned his attention to her. Her brow was creased in deep concern. "What happened to you, baby?"

He stared into her hazel eyes and felt the numbness fade. Horrible awareness flooded in; images of the night's events flashed through his mind. Walter's face crumpled. He lowered his head to his wife's shoulder and wept.

Chloe wrapped her arms around his trembling shoulders, stroked his rain-soaked hair. "Shh. I've got you, baby. I'm here," she murmured, unwittingly echoing Kendra Henderson's words. Walter clung to her comforting embrace and sobbed hard and long into the tragic night.

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Walter didn't feature in Henry's official report. According to the sheriff, Kendra managed to slip from her bonds and killed the first escaped con with the hammer she'd used earlier that day to hang pictures in the house. She then snuck up on the remaining two cons and killed them as well, one with the hammer, the other with the kitchen knife she'd taken from the first man. Henry knew the incident would not be investigated; the dead men were scumbags who'd raped and terrorized a small-town family. As far as everyone was concerned, the bastards had it coming.

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Chloe followed the familiar path to the ancient oak. Walter had skipped dinner, saying he had no appetite, and walked out of the house earlier that evening. When the sun fell below the horizon and he still didn't return, Chloe went in search of him. She went to the tree on a hunch and discovered it was correct. Walter sat under the tree's sheltering canopy, back against its broad trunk. His forearms rested on his drawn-up knees, his head bowed, eyes staring at the ground between his feet. He didn't acknowledge his wife as she seated herself beside him. Chloe stared out at the twilit countryside and waited in patient silence. She did not have to wait long.

"Chloe?"

"Yes, Walter?"

"Do you believe in luck?"

She considered this. "Sometimes. Other times I think we make our own luck."

Walter lifted his head, turned his gleaming blue eyes on her. "I think…I might be bad luck."

Chloe frowned. "What?"

"Fallon Harrison's relapse, attacking his wife. What happened to the Hendersons," he swallowed, "Nothing bad ever happened in this town until I showed up."

Chloe stared at him in disbelief. "Those things would've happened anyway, whether you were here or not."

"You don't know that. It could all be my fault--"

"Bullshit!" she snapped, "You're a pragmatist, Walter. You know better than to believe that crap about jinxes. And if you _hadn't_ been here, Kendra and Rhoda would both be dead now. You saved them."

Walter stared glumly at his hands. "Doesn't feel that way."

"I know." Chloe rested her hand on his forearm. "But that's what you did. Because of you they have a chance. Nancy won't be an orphan. Brenda and Rhoda will get the help they need. They'll heal from this, eventually. None of that would be possible if it weren't for you." She squeezed his arm. "You're a good man, Walter. You did a good thing, even if it doesn't feel that way now."

Walter's hand rested atop hers. His blue eyes bored into her. "I was scared," the words were uttered as if in confession, "I was so afraid they'd kill me. That they'd decide to attack you and Elsie after they killed the Hendersons. When I saw what they did to Rhoda…" His fingers squeezed Chloe's hand in a painful grip, but the woman's face did not show her discomfort, only compassion. "…all I thought about was you and…and the baby…and," he choked, "Blaire."

"Blaire?" She'd heard that name before, but Walter never went into any detail. Judging from his previous stories, none of it was pleasant.

"Blaire Roche. I promised her parents I'd bring her home." The despair in his eyes told Chloe that he failed in that promise.

"What happened to her?"

Walter told her. Tears streamed down their faces when his terrible story ended. "She was only six years old." Walter's chin trembled. "She didn't deserve to die like that, scared and alone with that monster. Her parents didn't deserve to be told their little girl wasn't ever coming home."

Rorschach was the one who told them before the police could. He'd stood in the door to their small apartment and let the Roches' anguish scour away the last shreds of his humanity. The mother's keening wails, the father's desolate eyes. Their baby was cruelly taken from the world, and only a handful of gnawed bones remained. The grieving parents divorced less than a year later. The father drank himself to death, while the mother abandoned New York and the memories it contained. As far as Rorschach knew, she never remarried, never had another child. One single, senseless act of brutality destroyed a family of good, innocent people.

"I don't want that to happen to us," Walter said, voice edged with desperation as he gripped his wife's shoulders, "I can't let myself love our baby because if I do…if something happened to her…"

Chloe placed her fingers over his mouth. "Shh. I understand. I do. I saw so many awful things when I worked at the free clinic. So many damaged children and ruined families. When I think about them I feel terrified something will happen to our baby. But I can't just shut off my love for it because of those fears. I can't let them influence how I raise and care for it once it's born. Bad things are gonna happen, Walter. You know better than I do how uncontrollable life is. That's no reason to stop living, baby. There's still so much good in the world, so much goddamned beauty. It's more than worth all the risks."

She traced the angles of his face in loving detail. "Hasn't loving me been worth the risk of losing me?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

"That's what I feel about you, and about this baby."

He heard the strength of her convictions behind her words, saw it in her eyes even in the fading light. At that moment he thought she was the bravest person he'd ever known. Walter cupped her face in his hands and hissed her full lips.

"C'mon," she said once the kiss ended, "It's getting dark." She stood, a minor struggle with the added weight of her stomach. Walter rose to his feet, put his arm around her waist. They walked back to the house as the first stars glimmered down from the black velvet sky. So beautiful.


	19. Nearly There

**A/N:** Writing has been a sort of therapy for me. I never expected this story to go on as long as it has; my plan was to end it after Walter's confrontation with Fallon Harrison, but once I got to that point it just didn't feel complete. So I merged it with another story idea I had in mind, i.e. the wedding and subsequent parenthood.

I don't know if all you readers out there care about this or not, but I thought I might as well get it out in the open seeing as it's almost over. I love this story, and the fact that so many of you guys seem to share my enthusiasm for it is one heck of a charming bonus. Thank you all for your generous reviews.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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If Walter thought being a pariah was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to being regarded as the town hero. The Sunday social was a hellish affair where everyone felt the need to voice their admiration of his deeds that stormy night. Walter hated the attention; the eager, awe-filled gazes. Hated it even when he was Rorschach at the height of masked heroism, only now he didn't have a mask to hide behind. Chloe finally took pity on him and they left the social early, begging exhaustion due to her pregnancy.

On the drive home Elsie said, "On the plus side, nobody who still has any doubts about you would dare call the cops now."

"Golly, that's comforting," Chloe sighed.

Walter remained silent, hands folded in his lap, eyes straight ahead. Chloe and Elsie worried about him; his appetite was down and he wasn't getting enough sleep. Never much for conversation, he hardly spoke at all lately. He seemed to be withdrawing into himself, only going through the motions of day-to-day life.

"Lila tells me the Harrisons are coming home sometime this week," Elsie said to break the uncomfortable silence, "Maybe we could drop by, see how they're doing."

Chloe nodded. "That'd be good. Is Alvin moving back in with them?"

"I think they're gonna give it a few more days. Let his parents settle in." _Let Alvin get used to the idea,_ she didn't say. Many doubted the boy would ever agree to live in the same house as his father. Elsie hesitated, then asked, "Walt, do you wanna come along when we visit?"

"No." His voice was flat. He stared blandly through the windshield.

Chloe gently pressed the issue, "I think Alvin would appreciate it if you came."

Walter didn't bother to respond. Chloe glanced at the rearview mirror to meet her aunt's equally troubled gaze.

Late that night Chloe woke to find the other side of the bed still empty. She rose and exited the bedroom, descended the stairs to the darkened first floor. The kitchen light was out; Elsie wasn't suffering from insomnia this night, at least. Chloe saw the front door was open, went to investigate. She pushed through the screen door, its springs emitting a faint creak in the still night, and found Walter on the porch, hands in his pockets, staring out into the darkness. A shapeless hump on the far left of the porch uttered a snore; ol' Nixon at his post. The porch's floorboards were cool against Chloe's bare feet. She walked to the still figure of her husband, looped her arms around his thin waist and rested her head against the back of his shoulder. Walter leaned into her ever-so-slightly.

"Please come to bed, baby."

"Not tired." A lie. She could hear the fatigue in his voice. Chloe tightened her arms in a gentle squeeze.

"Bad dreams?"

"No," Walter sighed, lowered his head, "Not yet."

"Keeping yourself awake will only make them worse. And I miss you," she hesitated, "And I'm worried about you."

"I know." Walter removed his hands from his pockets, gently grasped her wrists, and freed himself from her embrace. He turned to face her, put his arms around her waist. Chloe wrapped her own arms around his neck, leaned in to rest her forehead against his. The moonlight cast his face into harsh silhouette. "Just need more time," he said, voice low, "Need to get my head around everything that's happened. All so complicated now. Need to figure out how to deal with it."

Chloe unwound her arms from around his neck and rested her palms against his rough cheeks. "I just need to know you're gonna be okay," she whispered with a slight quaver. She felt her husband's warm lips against hers, let her mouth open to deepen their contact.

When their kiss ended Walter murmured, "I'll be okay. I promise."

"Okay," she sniffed, "Come back to bed with me? I won't be able to sleep without you."

"Alright." He let his wife lead him by the hand back into the house, up the stairs to the bedroom. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and climbed under the covers with her, put his arm around her broadening waist and held her close, her back to his front. He felt Chloe's body relax as she fell into slumber, her breathing slow and regular. Walter's eyes, however, remained open and he lay awake through the rest of the night.

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Lila Danvers smeared green gel over Chloe's distended belly, then pressed the sonogram's sensor against it. Grainy black and gray images whorled on the monitor. A rapid, rhythmic sound emerged from the speakers.

"Baby's heartbeat sounds nice and strong," Lila observed. To Walter it sounded watery and far too fast.

"Do you want me to try and find out its gender?"

Chloe shook her head. "No. We'd like it to be a surprise."

"Alrighty." The doctor maneuvered the wand to a different position. "Everything looks good."

How could she tell? It was all blobs and swirls to Walter. He might as well have been watching white noise on the TV.

Despite his emotional distance from the developing infant, Walter continued to act as a responsible parent. He attended Lamaze classes with Chloe and accompanied her to all of her prenatal checkups, read up on infant care, even took classes to learn how to change diapers and bathe the child without drowning it. He was prepared as he could possibly be for his impending fatherhood, yet he still couldn't muster the same enthusiasm as his wife did.

"Look," Lila's finger pointed, "There it is. See? It's sucking its thumb." Her finger traced a line on the screen and, like a blot of ink suddenly becoming a butterfly, Walter saw it. The round curve of its head, the tiny juts of its nose and chin, the white knobs of its spine, like a string of pearls. The baby _was_ sucking its thumb. Walter leaned closer to the screen, lips parted and eyes wide in fascination.

"Didn't know they did that before birth," he breathed. The two women's eyes met and they smiled, Chloe's tinged with relief at her husband's amazement which cracked through his emotionless façade.

"They sure do," Lila responded, "They even dream."

What did a baby dream about in the womb?

The infant removed its thumb from its mouth. Tiny lips smacked and pursed. Walter tore his gaze from the grainy screen and stared at Chloe's belly in wonder. This was happening inside of her while they watched it on the screen. Their baby, alive and real. A tangible thing, no longer an abstract idea.

Chloe reached and grasped his hand. His blue eyes jerked in surprise to meet her own. She smiled. "Isn't it amazing?"

Walter nodded.

"Everything looks good," Lila smiled at the couple, "Got yourselves a healthy fetus. I assume you'll want printouts?"

Chloe nodded enthusiastically and beamed at her husband. "Our first baby pictures!"

Her excitement brought a smile to Walter's face.

Minutes later, after Chloe had wiped off the gel and straightened her top, Lila handed over the printouts. "So," she said, "have the Hens ambushed you with a baby shower yet?"

"Not yet," Chloe chuckled, looking through the sonogram pictures.

Walter frowned. "Baby shower?"

"It's like a birthday party," his wife explained, "Only the presents are baby-related. Clothes, toys, that sorta thing."

"Saves the parents a lot of money," the doctor added.

"Oh." That didn't sound too bad, Walter thought.

Of course, a couple of days later at the social some of the men filled him in on a few more details.

"My condolences," said Mayor Arlo Henderson, "Remember my Gena's shower like it was yesterday. Never saw so much goddamn pastel in my life. Everything was decorated in baby rattles, pacifiers, little cartoon characters with huge eyes frolickin' through daisies." The casually dapper man shuddered.

"Don't forget the _games_," Reg, the part-time deputy, added with a grimace, "My Helen's actually had a baby-shaped piñata."

The others laughed while Walter grew increasingly dismayed.

"Better hope they don't have it at your house," Arlo warned, "Place'll be crawling with loud, giggling women going on and on about how _cute_ that Winnie the Pooh onesie is!" The mayor's voice rose to a near squeak towards the end of that sentence, hands clasped in imitation of womanly delight.

Walter's eyes widened in horror at the prospect. "M-maybe I could ask them to have it somewhere else."

The others looked at him as if he'd suddenly proposed they try to pet the lion at the zoo. "You crazy?" Zane asked, incredulous, "You don't interfere with a woman's baby shower, Walt. Not unless you wanna spend the rest of your days sleepin' on the couch."

"I see," he sighed, feeling a headache coming on. Walter discovered his tendency to develop stress-headaches whenever certain social situations loomed on the horizon, especially ones that made little sense to him. He'd experienced quite a few of them before his wedding.

"Hey," Reg's voice dropped, "Look who's here." He jerked his chin in the direction of the center's door. The others turned to witness the arrival of the Harrisons. Olivia walked with the aid of crutches, the kind with the bands that wrapped around the forearms rather than the crossbars that went under the arms. Fallon walked close beside her, one hand on her shoulder, ready to catch her at a moment's notice should she lose her precarious balance. Silence penetrated the perpetual murmur of the crowded community center in an expanding bubble around the newly arrived couple. There were stares, nudges and whispers, and averted eyes. The Harrisons stood amidst their silent neighbors and never felt more isolated than at that moment. Sympathy stabbed through Walter; he was in the very same position as they, not so long ago.

Vernon and Myra Birdsong approached, little Alvin between them. The boy required little encouragement to greet his mother with a heartfelt, if tentative, hug. Yet when asked to say hello to his father, Alvin shook his head and took a step back. Fallon, though not surprised, was obviously hurt by this reaction. His son was afraid of him.

"Damn," Zane sighed, "I honestly don't know how Livi can take him back, after what he did to her."

"Not as if he did it on purpose," Arlo retorted with little enthusiasm. In truth, he agreed with Zane, but--small town or not--he was enough of a politician that he wasn't about to risk taking a definite position on such a touchy subject.

Reg scoffed. "Fell off the wagon on purpose, didn't he? Fallon knew better, but he went and got liquored up anyway."

"What d'you think, Walt?" asked Zane.

"Yeah!" Reg exclaimed, "I mean, the sunovabitch came at ya with a gun. Bet at the very least you'd've wanted him to see some jail time."

Staring at the wounded family, Walter answered in a quiet voice, "Think he's punishing himself enough. Excuse me." He stepped away from the group. The three men watched in astonishment as the former vigilante approached the couple. He spoke to Olivia, now seated in a fold-up chair, who nodded and whose mouth formed the words _Thank you_. Walter then turned to Fallon, who visibly braced himself, but was unprepared for the redhead's extended hand. After a long moment's hesitation, Fallon tentatively reached out and clasped it with his own.

"Huh!" Reg's eyebrows shot up towards his nonexistent hairline. "How d'you like that! Thought he was all about holdin' grudges."

"Oh, hush up, Reg," Zane grumbled.

After they shook hands, Walter stepped away from the surprised family and strolled out the door to the playground. Once he'd gone, others began approaching the Harrisons. If Walter--who had every reason to shun Fallon Harrison--was willing to bury the hatchet, people reasoned, then who were they to do any less?

Chloe watched her husband exit the building with a thoughtful expression and followed him a minute later, leaving the horde of women to coo over her sonogram pictures. She found him seated in a swing, of all things, watching the kids play. Chloe sat in the empty swing beside him, felt the sling-like seat bow under her weight. "That was a nice thing you did."

Walter shrugged. "Out of character for me."

"Empathy's out of character?"

He gave her an odd look. "Have you met me?"

Chloe laughed, "Sometimes I wonder." She reached out to take his hand, threaded her fingers between his. Walter squeezed her hand in a preoccupied way, his eyes glassy and distant.

"What's wrong, Walter?"

He hesitated. "Did I…get up last night?" When he woke up that morning he found traces of mud on his lower legs and feet, as if he'd walked barefoot outside and the mess was hastily wiped away.

Chloe bit her lip and nodded. "Yeah. I woke up and you were gone. Went to look for you, found the back door open. You were walking between the rows in the garden." She regarded her husband's troubled expression. "You never told me you sleepwalked."

Walter looked away from her. "Doesn't happen often."

"Just when you're stressed?" her mouth stretched in a wry smile, "Must've happened a lot the last few months."

He snorted, met her eyes again. "Sorry if it scared you."

"It's okay." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm just worried you might hurt yourself."

"I won't." He reached out with his other hand to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

Chloe uttered a laugh of ironic frustration. "You know, I thought once we came here things'd be _easier_. I mean, what could possibly happen in a little town with only a few hundred people?"

The corner of Walter's mouth quirked. "Us?" This earned him a giggle from his wife.

"Oh! I could really use a breather from it all," Chloe sighed and rubbed her belly with her free hand.

"Me too."

They sat in silence while the town's children scrambled about with their usual zeal.

"_There_ you are!" The force of nature that was Bess Everton marched up to the defenseless couple with her jaw set and her brow creased in a determined frown. "Chloe, you ran off before telling me when you're available."

Chloe blinked. "Available?"

"For the shower! Was I talkin' to _myself_ for twenty minutes?"

Apparently. "Uh, well, I guess sometime next weekend's good."

The beautician's expression morphed into a beatific smile with an abruptness that left the couple disoriented. "Great! That'll give me just enough time ta plan all the activities. Saturday afternoon alright?"

"Er, fi--"

"Okay! See ya then!" The woman did an about-face and strode back into the building.

Walter stared after the broad retreating figure. "Not going to be at our house, is it?" he asked with a hint of dread.

"No," Chloe chuckled, "You can rest easy. Bess's having it at her place--I caught that much from her incessant chatter, at least."

Whew! Walter hadn't relished the prospect of having his home invaded by all those noisy, gossiping creatures. He eyed his wife with the same concern as one about to see a loved one off to war. "You gonna be alright?"

Chloe laughed. "I'm sure I'll survive intact." She gave him a playful nudge which set him to swaying gently in his swing.

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Late that night Walter rose from the bed, careful not to wake Chloe, and tiptoed out of the bedroom. He navigated the darkened house to the attic stairs, ascended the narrow steps to the ominous wooden door with the metal doorknob blackened with age. Yet when he opened the door it swung on its hinges without the faintest dramatic creak. Walter entered the musty interior of the attic. Moonlight filtered through a couple of narrow windows; the only source of illumination. Yet it was enough for the former vigilante, long adapted to a nocturnal life. He located the light switch without difficulty and the dim yellow bulbs of the overhead fixture added their meager glow. The old Singer sewing machine sat amidst the stacks of unwanted rolls of fabric and bags of cotton batting. The multi-tiered sewing kit contained dozens of spools of multicolored thread and needles of every imaginable type. Everything he needed. Walter laid his hand on the sewing machine's black metal chassis, cold from disuse. Memories of his years in the garment industry surfaced, most of them pretty dull. Once he gave himself over fully to Rorschach, he hadn't so much as reattached a loose button. Still, the knowledge remained. Walter found a power outlet, plugged in the ancient Singer, pulled up a stool he dug up from the attic's clutter. He gathered the materials he'd selected the previous night, threaded the sewing machine with practiced hands, and set to work.

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The day of the baby shower arrived. Elsie spent much of the day baking cookies in the shape of teddy bears and rattles. Walter hadn't even known there _was _such a thing as a rattle-shaped cookie cutter. The icing was in a variety of pastel shades which reminded him of cotton candy.

"Want one?" The old woman offered him a pink teddy bear with lemon yellow eyes. Walter wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Elsie _huh_ed. "Never thought I'd see the day when you turned down somethin' sugary."

"Sure you don't wanna come along?" Chloe asked from the breakfast nook where she finished off a bagel sandwich. "Bess's sure to've gone all out with the festoonery. It'll be quite a sight."

"I'm sure," Walter answered dryly, then wondered if _festoonery_ was even a word. "Got things to do," he added.

"You just wanna avoid gettin' pawed by Bess again," Elsie grinned.

"That too," the redhead conceded. He said his goodbyes to the two women on the porch, then watched as Chloe's compact car vanished down the road with an electric drone. Once the vehicle was out of sight he went back inside the house and up the stairs to the attic to finish his project.

Bess had decorated her home with her typical gusto. Balloons were tethered to every stationary piece of furniture, crepe paper streamers hung down from the ceiling alongside cardboard cutouts of rattles and pacifiers. Bess even baked a load of cupcakes, each topped with a little plastic baby doll. Everything was pastel. Chloe thought it looked like an after-dinner mint factory exploded in the beautician's living room. There was hardly enough space for all the guests.

"Isn't this great!" Cecelia gushed, hands clasped to her bosom.

"It's something alright," Chloe nodded. The others hastened her to the plush couch which all but devoured the pregnant woman as her weight settled into it. This, she decided, was going to be a _long_ day. But at least she'd be comfortable.

In truth, the afternoon spent at the baby shower proved a pleasant one. There was plenty of chatting and good food, Bess came up with a game involving obscure and bizarre baby names throughout the ages (Faith-Moves-Mountains McCoy?), and then, of course, the presents were opened. There were lots of clothes (all gender-neutral thanks to Chloe's insistence on keeping her baby's sex a surprise) both store-bought and made: Myra had crocheted a tiny sweater with matching hat and booties while Cecelia purchased a rainbow-variety of onesies each with its own cartoon character embroidered on the front. There were practical items: various bibs from Deb, nursing bras from Gena Henderson, a breast pump from Lila. And, of course, there were toys: Cecelia's was a star-and-moon themed mobile that played _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_, Bess gave a plush puppy dog that resembled a cotton ball with a pink tongue, Lila provided a variety of teething rings, and Deb and Myra threw in a bunch of noisy items guaranteed to drive most parents crazy within a few minutes (rattles, jingly-balls, a ring of useless plastic keys).

"This one's from Livi," Bess said, passing the expectant mother a gift wrapped box. Though invited to the shower, Olivia Harrison remained absent, claiming she had yet to recover enough stamina for a party. The absentee's gift was an infant activity center equipped with colorful things that spun, whistled, blinked, and honked; the sort of gift adults were often caught playing with only to insist they were testing it out for safety's sake.

"And this," Elsie grinned, indicating a decorated cardboard partition, "is from me." She lifted the partition aside to reveal a wooden rocking chair with a padded seat.

Chloe gasped, "Where'd you get that?" It looked like the most expensive gift of them all; something she'd insisted against. Not that her aunt ever listened.

"Had it tucked away in a corner of the attic for years. Got Walter to help me sneak it out while you were at work," Elsie explained, "My legs're too damn short for it, but I think it should be just right for you. Every young mother should have a rocking chair, y'know."

"Try it out!" Cecee exclaimed. The others added their own voices to her request until Chloe gave in with a smile. Two of the ladies helped her haul herself out of the man-eating couch, a task which caused a lot of good-natured laughter. Chloe then eased herself into the rocker which didn't make even the slightest squeak of protest as it took her weight. She swayed back and forth, hands folded atop her swollen belly.

"Well?" Elsie prompted.

The expectant mother smiled. "This is really soothing."

"That's the idea," her aunt beamed.

By some miracle of physics they managed to cram all of the gifts into Chloe's little car using both the trunk and the entire backseat. When they got home Walter carried the heaviest items inside. Nearly everything went into the nursery, including the rocker. The family stood in the doorway to admire their handiwork.

"All it needs now is a baby," Elsie quipped.

The nursery was indeed complete. The crib was assembled, its new mobile dangling above it. The cream-colored dresser was filled with baby clothes. The colorful toybox filled with playthings. The rocker sat in a corner with a lamp beside it. The changing table was stocked with diapers and necessary accoutrements. The walls of the room had been painted powder blue with frolicking circus animals stenciled in a border where the walls met the ceiling. The wide picture window was hung with curtains done in sky blue with white puffy clouds. The nursery sat with bated breath, waiting to be filled with a single tiny life.

"I can't believe we did all that," said Chloe.

"_I_ can't believe there's only a couple of months left," Elsie declared, patting her niece's belly.

Chloe licked her lips in sudden nervousness. The day of her child's birth drew near, whether she was ready or not. The subtle movements of her husband's expression told her she wasn't alone in her anxiety.

That night as Chloe got ready for bed Walter walked into the bedroom with a bundle in his arms.

"That for me?" she asked with a half teasing grin.

Walter shook his head. "For the baby." He handed her the bundle, a folded length of cloth. Curious, Chloe unfolded the item and held it up. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in a silent gasp. It was a blanket sewn from midnight-blue fabric, embroidered with a white starscape. At the very center of it, arranged from a constellation of pinpoint stars, was a silhouette of an infant curled in the fetal position, its thumb in its mouth. The same image they'd seen in the sonogram. Chloe hugged the blanket to her chest, stared at her husband with shining eyes.

"Do you like it?" he asked, anxiously searching her expression for disapproval.

Chloe's chin trembled, tears spilled from her wide eyes. "Oh hell, there I go," she sniffed and wiped her eyes with one hand, the other still holding the blanket against her.

Walter smiled and put his arms around her. "You like it."

"No," she said, voice muffled against his shirt, "I _love_ it. You couldn't have made it if you only _cared_ about the baby."

"Don't know if I love it, yet," he responded. His hands rubbed her back in soothing circles.

"You're almost there, if not already." Chloe pulled back to look into his eyes, her own still agleam with emotion. "I love you."

Walter leaned in to plant a kiss on her full lips. A sudden _bump_ startled the couple from their embrace.

"Did you feel that?" Chloe asked, eyes wide, and placed her hands against her belly. Her mouth stretched in a wondrous smile. She looked at her husband. "It kicked."

Walter, hesitant, rested his hands against his wife's round stomach. The flesh seemed to vibrate against his palms. He met Chloe's gaze with his own wide-eyed awe. "I can feel it."

Chloe laughed. Walter knelt, rested his ear against her belly, listening to his child's movements while Chloe threaded her fingers through his red hair. He closed his eyes as realization dawned and a new emotion flooded in. _I love you._


	20. Those Beautiful Eyes

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Craig decided to celebrate the start of another summer break with a barbecue at his house. Among his many guests he also invited Walter's family and, to the redhead's surprise, he found himself agreeing, which said much for the schoolteacher's charismatic personality. Among the others were Lila, Zane and Henry Dobbins (with Cecelia on his arm), the Birdsongs, the Harrisons, and the Hens with their own families. They all gathered on the deck outside the house Craig and Adam shared. Citronella candles burned, as did some of the burgers on the barbecue. Wine and imported beers flowed, as well as softer stuff for the non-imbibers. A casual, relaxed affair, much like their enthusiastic host.

"Every year he's as thrilled as the kids are when school lets out for summer," Adam explained with a wry smile, "Then three weeks later he's chomping at the bit for August to roll around."

"Don't listen to him, Walt," Craig called from his post at the gas grill, "He lies like a rug."

"You should know," Adam retorted sweetly. Walter felt a blush coming on. Though he'd come to terms with the two men's relationship, he couldn't help but feel discomfited whenever they teased each other in a flirtatious manner. It was just too weird.

"Got any plans?" Chloe asked the burly man.

Craig nodded. "Matter of fact, I'm teaching Drivers Ed over the summer."

"Here in town?" the woman laughed incredulously, "Guess I'd better look for cover."

"C'mon! It won't be that bad."

"Well, what happened to that lifeguard thing?" asked Myra. Craig often spent the summer months up at the Lovettesville City Pool protecting the overambitious swimmers from themselves.

An uncomfortable silence passed between the schoolteacher and his partner. "Uh, they didn't have any openings this year."

Adam frowned. "Actually, the pool's manager got wind of Craig and me and decided a public institution where people brought their kids was no place for the likes of us."

"What!" Chloe exclaimed, "They can't do that! That's discrimination."

Craig rushed to head off what he knew would be a lengthy rant at the injustice of it all. "Look, I really don't wanna make a big fuss over this. I was getting bored with the whole lifeguard thing anyway. Teachin' a buncha teens how to drive is bound to inject some excitement into my days."

"That's for sure," Adam snorted.

Walter wandered away from the chatting group to retrieve a soda from the cooler. He popped open the top, chugged down the sugary liquid, and suppressed a belch. He was in mixed company, after all.

It was a beautiful evening. The early summer air was pleasantly warm, a mild breeze stirred the surrounding foliage, the abounding insects committed suicide against the humming bug zapper. As the daylight slowly drained from the sky, myriad crickets began their evening serenade. Walter couldn't remember hearing crickets in New York, apart from TV shows. Their noise was both eerie and soothing.

A minivan pulled into the already crowded driveway and disgorged Deb Blascoe and--to Walter's alarm--Viv who immediately speared the watching redhead with a dazzling grin.

"Hey, Craig!" Deb shouted in her smoky voice and held up a covered bowl, "Made my world-famous potato salad. And Viv made blueberry pie."

The bearded face split into a grin. "Great! You can set 'em out on the table with the other stuff."

"Hi, Walter," Viv cooed in passing. Walter remained silent; it seemed the action least likely to encourage the infatuated teen. He edged his way to the bench where Chloe had taken a seat and lowered himself beside her.

"Why does she keep doing that?"

His wife smiled. "It's just a harmless crush, Walter."

"But why _me?_"

"You kidding? You're famous, handsome--"

Walter wrinkled his nose. "Not handsome."

"Sure you are." Chloe took his hand. "I've always thought so."

"Never understood that, either." He smiled, squeezed her hand. He could tell from the droop of her eyelids and subdued smile that Chloe was tired. It happened easily now that she was well along in her third trimester. She also complained of frequent backaches, which didn't surprise Walter considering how her jutting stomach pulled her lower back into a pronounced curve. He and Elsie did their best to make her comfortable, but there was only so much good a massage could do and Chloe refused even mild painkillers that Lila assured were harmless to the developing baby.

"Think you'll need to leave early?"

Chloe shook her head. "Nah. I'll tough it out. Just gimme a few minutes to get my second wind."

"Alright." Walter kissed her cheek, a chaste yet heartfelt act which earned him another tired smile.

The party went well, as gatherings of neighbors and friends often did. People ate too much, drank plenty (aside from Walter, Chloe, and Fallon Harrison who all stuck to sodas), and generally milled around talking about nothing in particular. Walter, for the most part, remained in the background, drifting from group to group to listen in on their topics of choice. A wallflower comfortable with his modest social role. At one point, thanks to all the sodas, he went inside to use the bathroom. When he finished and headed for the back door leading to the deck, his keen ears picked up a faint sound that gave him pause. It seemed to come from the coat closet. Curious, he opened the door to discover young Viv Blascoe huddled amongst the jackets and overcoats sobbing her eyes out. Walter gaped. What on earth could have set her off in so short a time?

"You alright?"

The teenager visibly struggled to pull herself together. "I'm…I'm fine," she sniffed, wiped her mascara-smeared eyes. The illusion of composure lasted for about five seconds, then her face crumpled and she burst into another round of tears. "No I'm not! Everything's horrible! I hate my life!"

Her outburst took the redhead aback. He briefly considered shutting the door and fetching Deb to take care of this, but reconsidered. Viv might not stay put if he left and he didn't relish the scene a crying teenaged girl would create in the lighthearted atmosphere of Craig's party. But what was he supposed to do? He had no idea how to comfort a distraught girl. He settled for a simple, "What happened?"

It was all the encouragement Viv needed. Last week she caught her boyfriend cheating on her. When confronted, he told her on no uncertain terms that he never found her all that attractive and he only dated her because she "put out" and because her mom had cable. Walter listened to the girl's woes without a single clue as to how he should respond. To him it all sounded ridiculously mundane, whereas Viv behaved as if a tragedy of operatic proportions had befallen her.

"I just don't know what I should _do!_" she sobbed.

Walter frowned. "Do? Why should you do anything? He's the one who left."

"But," Viv sniffled and turned her wounded gaze towards him, "but I love him."

_Don't roll your eyes,_ a voice not unlike Chloe's warned him. "But he doesn't love you," he said in as sensible a tone as he could muster, "Has to go both ways or it's just user and victim." Walter knew a lot about victims.

"So…you're saying I should try to stop loving him?" Good lord, the girl was naïve!

Walter shook his head. "Can't control that. Can only control how you behave because of it." He hesitated, placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Treat yourself with more respect than…this." He winced at the trite words that emerged from his mouth. They sounded like the type of phrase uttered by self-help advisors in infomercials.

Viv licked her lips. "'S what my mother says."

The older man offered a faint smile. "Doesn't make it wrong." Gaah! What was wrong with him?

The girl sniffled, offered up a brave look. "Thanks, Walter. You were always real nice to me, you know?"

_I was?_ "Er, you're welcome."

Viv went to the bathroom to clean up. Walter stepped out onto the deck with a bemused expression. He wandered over to the cooler where Lila and Deb chatted, the latter with her trademark cigarette between her fingers.

"You sure took your time in there," the matronly waitress smirked around a cloud of smoke, "Got lost?"

"Yes," he replied in perfect honesty.

"Seen Viv around?"

"Think she's in the bathroom."

Deb sighed. "Probably fixing her makeup again. That'll take a while." She tilted her head back to exhale another gray-white cloud, then wandered off to talk to Myra, leaving Walter alone with Lila.

The doctor smiled at the redhead. "So, how're things?"

"Fine."

"I meant with Chloe," she clarified, "She's seemed kind of down lately."

Walter shrugged. "Been tired a lot."

"That's not all it is," Lila gently insisted, "It was at first, but now she's also a little sad. It's got me worried, both as her doctor and her friend."

Now Walter was worried. What had he missed? Had Chloe mentioned something that he just brushed aside? Was it something _he_ said? "She say anything to you?"

Lila shook her head. "You know Chloe. She doesn't like to burden other people with her troubles. Every time I try to draw it out of her she just says everything's great, wonderful, couldn't be better." She shrugged. "It's nothing so serious as depression, but I don't like seeing her this way. Unhappy. You haven't noticed?"

"No," he said guiltily, "Just thought she was tired."

"Well, there's no need to pressure her, but you might wanna find out what's bothering her. I'm sure it's nothing major."

"Alright," Walter sighed. Couldn't be any tougher than comforting Viv in the coat closet.

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Chloe watched her husband from across the crowded deck as he mingled with the various people he'd come to know in the months since he arrived in Jubilation. She liked to see how comfortable he was with them, how easily he engaged in conversation, albeit mainly as a listener. She felt relief at the way everyone included him now. Walter was one of them.

A hard _bump _drew her attention to her enlarged middle once again. She hummed a light tune and rubbed her belly in an attempt to calm the restless fetus. Chloe loved her unborn baby, but lately the kid was putting her affections to the test by keeping her up all hours of the night with its incessant kicking and prodding. It was going to be one of those restless toddlers you had to practically keep on a leash, she was sure. Probably scream at the top of its little lungs while it dashed into oncoming traffic and scare the remaining color from its mother's hair. Chloe smirked; baby wasn't even born yet and she already dreaded the "terrible twos."

"Mind if I sit here?" Olivia Harrison's silhouette blotted the sun's fading light, crutches jutting from her forearms like extended legs.

"Go ahead." Chloe patted the space beside her on the deck's bench. Olivia maneuvered herself to the bench and settled beside the pregnant woman with a groan.

"Thanks. On my feet for more'n ten minutes and everything starts achin'." She freed her arms from the crutches and set them aside. She looked at her bench-mate with a smile. "Sure you can appreciate that."

Chloe chuckled, "Yeah. Aches, fatigue, mood swings, all that good stuff."

"Don't forget the lousy bladder control," Olivia added cheerfully.

"God! Don't get me started. Seems like I make fifty trips to the bathroom a day!" Chloe grinned at the other woman, enjoying the opportunity to vent her pregnancy woes with someone who'd been there. "Still, it could be worse, I guess."

"Right," Olivia smirked, "Could be twins."

"Yeesh!" Chloe laughed. Then her wandering gaze caught sight of her husband talking to Lila and her expression grew somber. Her sudden change of mood brought a frown of concern to the other woman.

"You okay, Chloe?"

She uttered her usual automatic response, "Fine. Couldn't be better."

"Hunh." Olivia followed her gaze to the redhead. "Everything alright with you an' Walter?"

"Everything's fine. He's been very understanding. Very helpful."

"But?"

Chloe pursed her lips, turned her attention back to the woman beside her. "How're you and Fallon?"

"Fi--" she caught herself, "Could be worse. We got a lotta troubles to work on, but we're trying. Least Alvin's willing to be in the same room as his daddy now, long as they're on opposite sides." She sighed.

"Sometimes," Chloe swallowed, "Sometimes I wonder if it was our fault. Mine and Walter's. For coming here."

"I thought that, too, at first," Olivia confessed, meeting the other's hazel eyes with her own brown stare, "But I know that's foolishness. It was Fallon's mistake and mine. We both got too complacent. I was the one who bought the liquor. Was gonna give it to my brother for his birthday. I thought, hell, Fallon's all better. He can control himself." She shook her head with a rueful expression. "Led him to temptation."

"It wasn't your fault, Livi."

Olivia lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. "It is a little bit. Just like Fallon knows it's his fault. We're tryin' not ta dwell on that. Things're hard enough without throwin' blame around. So," her mouth quirked, "I showed you mine. Why don't you show me yours?"

Chloe bit her lip. "It's silly. Not as if it's life-or-death or anything."

"C'mon, Chlo."

She sighed, lowered her eyes. "I think…Walter doesn't, y'know…_want_ me. Like this," she put her hands on her belly.

Olivia frowned. "Thought you said you were tired all the time. All those aches 'n pains you were griping about, you still wanna fool around?"

"You telling me you and Fallon never 'fooled around' when you were pregnant?"

The other woman snorted. "Course we did! We both knew there wouldn't be much of that after Alvin was born. Wanted to get as much quality time as we could," she grinned.

"Well, apparently Walter doesn't feel the same way," Chloe felt her throat begin to tighten, "He hasn't touched me that way in weeks."

"You say anything to him about it?"

Chloe shook her head. "It'll just make him feel guilty."

Olivia quirked an eyebrow. "Think he'd rather see you sad?"

"I'm not sad."

"I believe you," Olivia replied, which made them both liars.

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They went home well after sunset. Elsie headed for her room to take a nap while Chloe went to the kitchen to put away the leftovers Craig had insisted they take along. Walter leaned against the doorjamb and watched his wife rearrange the contents of the fridge to accommodate the extra food. Now that he was actually looking for it, he could see the faint sadness in her eyes, the slope of her shoulders. Things he mistook for simple fatigue. He recalled the mornings he found Chloe staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, turning her head from side to side, prodding the extra softness that had accumulated in recent weeks. He thought about all the times he kissed her on the cheek or forehead rather than on the lips; he did that because he knew once his lips came in contact with hers he might not be able to control himself, and she was so _tired_ all the time. So weighed down by the baby inside of her. Walter hadn't thought to ask what she wanted, only assumed. He realized, with a stab of guilt, that his assumption was probably wrong.

Chloe wedged the last Tupperware container into the fridge and closed the door. She sensed rather than heard her husband approach her from behind. Felt his hand brush aside her long hair to rest against the back of her neck. Fingers and thumb kneaded the muscles of her slender neck. Chloe's head bent down, eyes closed, relaxed by his gentle ministrations. She felt his soft lips against her temple, her cheek; felt his other hand cup her chin and direct her face towards his. His kiss was deep and filled with tenderness. Chloe's lips parted in response, letting his tongue slide in to dance against hers. Chloe turned her body until she was able to snake her arms around Walter's neck. Her belly pressed against his flat stomach, inhibiting their embrace. The baby kicked. Walter's lips smiled against hers. He drew away, placed his hand against her turbulent belly. "Settle down, now."

Chloe gave a quiet laugh, then abruptly lowered her head to let her hair conceal her expression.

"What's wrong?" Walter asked, concerned. He stroked her graying hair.

"Nothing." Chloe forced herself to lift her head once again. "It's just…I thought you didn't want…I mean, I know I'm not much to look at now."

Walter cupped her face in his hands, stroked her soft cheeks with his thumbs. "Look at me."

Her eyes met his, gray-blue hazel to clear ocean. Chloe felt her throat tighten as emotions flooded her; love and sadness and need. Walter smiled his sweetest smile and rested his forehead against hers. "This is all I see," he said, no more than a whisper, "The way you look at me with those eyes. So beautiful." He leaned forward, planted feather-light kisses upon her eyelids. "So beautiful. No mirror can show you that."

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears she felt building in her, opened them again to stare at her husband. "I thought you didn't want me like this. You hardly touch me lately."

"I hardly touch you because I can't control myself when I'm with you. I was afraid I might hurt you somehow." He took her hand, guided it to the familiar hard bulge that tented his jeans. "See? Just from kissing you." He smiled. "I'll always want you."

"I want you, too," she breathed, heart pounding in reaction to her husband's tangible desire. Without another word Walter put his arm around her and led her out of the kitchen, up the stairs, into their bedroom.

Making love to a woman in her third trimester was awkward in every sense of the word. More than once Chloe broke down in laughter as they struggled to figure out the mechanics of it. The fact that the baby kept kicking didn't help matters, either. Still, as the old saying goes, where there's a will there's a way. And they were very willing. The moment culminated in a shared orgasm as gloriously satisfying as any they'd experienced before, and afterwards they lay on the bed face-to-face, happy and content. Walter stared into the hazel-blue eyes of his wife, saw her full-lipped mouth curve in a joyous grin and knew she saw the same on his own face.


	21. Air Into Gold

**A/N:** Moment of truth, folks!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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After months of shunning the media, Walter began to watch the news and read the papers on a regular basis. At first, it was just Nite Owl and Silk Spectre, the last "superheroes" of Walter's generation. The two illegal vigilantes made quite a splash in the world of crime. Rarely did a week pass where the police didn't find criminals of all types trussed up and dumped on their doorstep. While everyday people praised their efforts for the most part, the police grew increasingly irate at the masks' presumptuousness. Owl and Spectre soon climbed to the top of the Most Wanted list, which only served to increase the vigilantes' popularity. It wasn't long after that the first _new _masks surfaced. Young men and women enamored of the superhero life, armed with modern weapons and diverse hand-to-hand combative skills. The media, with its flair for the dramatic, stated that the Third Era of the Superheroes had begun.

Chloe peered over her husband's shoulder at the article he read and snorted. "I'm amazed there aren't any super_villains_, yet."

"There will be." Walter folded the newspaper and set it aside. When the first articles were printed he thought about making a scrapbook, then thought again. Saving such reminders would only lead to obsession, and he knew where obsessions led. He'd _lived _one for most of his adult life.

"Wish you were out there with them?" Chloe asked.

He shook his head. "Gotten too soft for that. Besides," he grinned, "I don't have a mask."

"But you're glad it's not over, aren't you?"

The couple was seated together on the couch, the muted TV displaying a _Cosby Show_ rerun. Walter put his arm around his wife and drew her against him to rest her head on his shoulder. "I am glad," he admitted. Especially since Adrian Veidt, Ozymandias himself, publicly decried the rise in masked vigilantism only to be jeered by many prominent news personalities as a hypocrite. They had no idea how big a hypocrite he truly was.

"Heard it's happening in other cities, too," Chloe murmured, head pillowed against him, "Not just New York. Makes me grateful we live in a small town."

"Me too." Smugness aside, Walter really didn't want his family exposed to the dangers the presence of masks entailed. Certainly not his child. He stroked Chloe's hair, placed his other hand over her swollen belly. "Three more weeks."

"Thank god!" Chloe gushed, "It'll be such a relief to be able to tie my own shoes again."

"Won't say that when baby wakes you at three a.m. wanting to be fed," Walter grinned, nuzzling her hair.

"It won't just be me," Chloe retorted, "Lila gave me a breast pump." She smirked. "You're blushing right now, aren't you?"

"No," he lied.

Chloe chuckled. "The things you get embarrassed over."

"Can't help it!"

"I know you can't, baby. But I still think it's funny."

On the screen, Bill Cosby wound up his parental lecture to his recalcitrant children and the credits rolled. Moments later the evening's news broadcast came on. Walter reached for the remote to change the channel when an image appeared that gave him pause. Instead, he switched off the mute function.

"_--n what many consider to be long overdue, New York City's Police Commissioner announced today that the status of Walter Joseph Kovacs, a.k.a. Rorschach, has been changed from At Large to Assumed Dead."_

A sweaty, balding man dressed in full law enforcement regalia stood behind a podium festooned with microphones from every major television station, while in the corner of the screen hovered two photos: one of Rorschach with his mask set in its jack-o-lantern grin, the other Walter Kovacs's mug shot. The video footage of the Commissioner's speech began mid-sentence. _"…as it has been nearly a year since Kovacs's unfortunate escape from custody there have been no incidences against any known or suspected criminals consistent with his particular methods. Since Kovacs was compulsive in his vigilantism, we can only conclude that he was caught in the devastating terrorist attack perpetrated by Dr. Manhattan and his body was therefore lost among the three million souls who perished that tragic day. That in mind, I can no longer justify wasting the taxpayers' money chasing after a ghost…"_

"Never liked that picture."

Chloe's mouth snapped shut--she was unaware it hung open--and she turned to her husband in wide-eyed shock. "Huh?"

"That one," he pointed to the Rorschach photo, "looks like I'm smiling." Walter grimaced.

Incredulous, Chloe exclaimed, "We just found out we don't hafta look over our shoulders anymore and all you can think to say is you don't like your _picture?_ Don't you realize what this means? We're free!" She practically bounced in her seat; no minor feat for someone in her condition.

Walter smiled. "Seem excited enough for both of us."

"Damn right! I'm so thrilled I could…uh…" A look her husband had seen far too often the past few weeks flitted across her face. "Um, could you give me a hand?"

Smirking, Walter rose from the couch and took her hands to help her to her feet. Chloe headed in the direction of the bathroom as fast as her waddle would permit. "Better not catch you laughing at me," she called over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Sheer willpower enabled him to hold his composure until the bathroom door slammed, then Walter doubled over. Thank goodness he had a quiet laugh.

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Karma got him back at the next Sunday social. Walter entered the community center only to have a good ten years startled out of him when the entire building roared, _"Happy Death Day, Walter!"_ The center's interior was decorated in black and white streamers and balloons, and even a HAPPY DEATH DAY banner. On the long buffet table sat an array of pastries and cookies, also in a black and white motif (Walter didn't even want to _know_ how one made black icing). At the center of it all was a chocolate sculpture shaped like an old-fashioned coffin and lying inside the coffin, à la Count Dracula, lay a miniature Rorschach molded out of marzipan; trench coat, fedora, purple pinstriped pants, and all. The final indignity was the figure's mask which was designed after the photo used on the news program; a ridiculous jack-o-lantern smile.

Chloe burst into laughter, her body doubled over as much as her advanced pregnancy would allow. She laughed so long and hard Walter was surprised she didn't need to make a trip to the center's public restroom. When she recovered enough to straighten and wipe the tears from her eyes she said, "And me without a camera."

"Yes. What a shame," Walter said in a dull monotone, at which point a flash drew his attention to Elsie's smug grin as she lowered her camera. The incident set Chloe off on another gale of laughter.

"C'mon, Walt," Elsie cajoled, "You didn't really think we'd let the opportunity ta publicly humiliate you slip by."

"I'd hoped," he sighed, resigned to the situation. It really wasn't so bad once the initial fervor died down, though Walter refused to eat any of the Rorschach confection, thinking it tantamount to cannibalism. In truth, he felt touched by the town's gesture. This, more than anything, told him how much Jubilation had become home to him; that all the people he came to know would throw a celebration just for him. Even though Walter hated to be the center of attention, he was grateful all the same.

"Congratulations, Walter."

He turned, surprised to find Kendra Henderson and her two daughters before him. They seemed to have recovered a great deal since that horrible night they were attacked, although Rhoda clutched her mother's hand in a near death grip, nervous among so many people. So many men.

"Thank you," Walter replied. He didn't ask how they were; it was the sort of question everyone asked them, no doubt. A question inevitably answered by a simple "Okay," which gave away nothing. He could guess how they were from his own unfortunate experiences. There were good days, and there were bad days. Hopefully, there would come a time when the good outnumbered the bad.

"Guess this means you and Chloe can relax now." Kendra smiled faintly.

Walter nodded, then found himself saying, "I hope…things are getting better for you."

The woman and her two girls wore similar expressions of haunted sadness with just a glimmer of something akin to optimism. "So do we." Kendra licked her lips, "We just came by to tell you, thank you for what you did for us. Thank you for saving my Rhoda."

A tightness gripped his throat. _I didn't save her. I only stopped them from killing her._ Somehow, he managed to speak around the pain, "I wish I could've--"

"You did enough," Kendra said, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "Really, you did."

Rhoda summoned up the courage to speak, "Thank you, Walter."

"You're welcome," he croaked, the words small and inadequate. He made no move to touch her, didn't try to lessen the distance between them. He knew all too well how long it would be before the girl trusted anyone besides her family to come near her.

Having said their peace, the Hendersons left the community center for home. Walter's prayers went with them.

His wandering eyes caught sight of Fallon by the buffet table tentatively offering his son a cookie. Alvin, equally hesitant, reached out to accept his father's offering with a quiet thank you. A small moment, but an encouraging one.

Chloe, seated on a padded chair someone thoughtfully provided for her, looked up at the approach of the town's pastor and his daughter.

"Hello, Chloe," Vernon smiled, "You're looking well."

"If by 'well' you mean 'about to pop,' then yeah, I look great," she grinned, then turned her attention to Vernon's twelve-year-old, "Hi, Judi. Heard you're special day's coming up pretty soon."

Judi nodded; the beads in her hair clicked against each other. "Yeah, next Tuesday!"

"Thirteen," Chloe's mouth curved in a nostalgic smile, "A young lady."

"Yes. Our very own teenager in the house," Vernon's sigh held a combination of pride and despair. Judi rolled her eyes, already endowed with a teen's embarrassment towards her parent. _Something to look forward to_, Chloe thought. But, thankfully, not for several years. Her hand unconsciously rubbed her belly.

"Is it movin'?" Judi asked, curious.

"Not at the moment. It seems to save it up for when I try to sleep." Chloe laughed ruefully.

Judi stared at the woman's abdomen as if she might develop X-ray vision. "What d'you think it'll be?"

Shrug. "Don't know. We're letting that be a surprise. I really don't care what it is, long as it's healthy."

"I am certain it will be," Vernon said with a kind nod.

Walter approached, nodded hello to the Birdsongs, then looked down at his seated wife and frowned. "What're you eating?"

Chloe held up her paper plate for inspection. "Your head. Want some?"

"No." He wrinkled his nose. "You doing alright?"

"My back's killing me, but what else is new?" She stabbed her fork into the marzipan figure's grinning face and was amused to see her husband wince in reaction.

"Want to leave early?" he asked.

"Heck no!" Chloe laughed, "You're not getting out of it that easy."

Damn.

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Later, safe at home, Walter drew a bath for him and Chloe to share. This was a habit they'd fallen into lately. They enjoyed the physical closeness, as the claw-footed tub offered enough room to comfortably hold them both even with Chloe's oversized belly, plus immersing herself in the water eased the strain on her back.

Chloe lay against her husband's front, her enlarged stomach jutting above the water's surface like a brown island. She grinned drowsily. "Whale."

Walter kissed her shoulder. "_My_ whale."

She giggled, the sound light and musical despite her obvious exhaustion. "Anything this uncomfortable's bound to be worth it, right?"

"I think so," Walter replied with the flippancy one who didn't have to experience such discomfort.

"Have you picked a name yet?"

He'd hoped she wouldn't bring that up. "Probably be a boy anyway."

Chloe sighed, "It's a fifty-fifty chance, Walter. Have you even _thought_ about it?"

"Of course I have," he said, defensive, "Just can't find the right one."

She could hear the guilt edge his voice. Nevertheless, she persisted, "Time's running out, baby."

"I know," he sighed.

Chloe took his hand, fingers interlaced, and brought it up to her face to plant a kiss upon it. "You'll think of something."

Another sigh. "Hope so."

They settled into comfortable silence for a while, then Walter reluctantly spoiled the moment, "Water's getting cold."

"Aww! Just a little longer," Chloe whined, but Walter insisted.

As he helped her out of the tub he marveled at how much Chloe's body had changed. The swollen, sagging breasts. The enlarged stomach jutting before her, its weight pulling her lower back into a pronounced curve. No wonder she complained of back troubles! No wonder she had to waddle to the bathroom every ten minutes! Giving birth was certain to come as a hell of a relief. Walter helped her dry off and get dressed, despite her protests that she could do it herself, then they climbed into bed.

Lying on her side, Chloe took comfort from the warmth of her husband's body against her back, his arm draped around her, just below her breasts. Nestled in her womb, the baby kicked to let her know it was still there.

"Shh," Chloe rubbed her swollen belly, "Settle down, sweetheart." Tonight it chose to obey, a rare occurrence which she took full advantage of by promptly dropping off to sleep. In the timeless realm of her unconscious a dream inserted itself. She stood in a room paneled floor to ceiling in boards of aged mahogany, empty save for a freestanding oval mirror that loomed before her. Chloe peered into the silvery glass, saw a figure that she knew intuitively was not her reflection. With the irrational logic of a dreamer, Chloe knew this was her child, all grown up. The image was blurred to the point that she couldn't even tell what its gender might be. About her height, with Walter's strong, slender build and her nut-brown skin tone. The figure's hair was either long for a boy or short for a girl, dark and reddish-brown. She could just make out the white ovals of its eyes, the faint shadow under its nose, the blurry line of its mouth. Chloe reached out to the image as it did the same with its corresponding hand, like a reflection. The mirror's glass was cool against her fingertips.

"What's you're name?" she whispered.

She saw the dark oval beneath its nose expand as it opened its mouth to answer…and sudden, stabbing pain yanked her back into reality.

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"Walter."

His eyes opened to darkness. Still night.

"Walter…"

The sound of Chloe's voice seemed wrong. Was she crying? Walter's hand stretched out, touched her belly. He gasped in alarm; it was hard as a rock.

"I-I'm having contractions!" Chloe told him, unnecessarily. They'd been going on for some time. Early contractions this late in pregnancy was not uncommon, so she'd tried to ignore them. Tried to keep quiet so she wouldn't interrupt her husband's sleep. But then they became more frequent, more painful, and she realized this wasn't a false alarm.

Walter switched on the bedside lamp, saw his wife's face contorted in agony. "Easy, easy. Just breathe."

"It's too early. It's not supposed to happen for two more weeks!"

"Guess it's ready now." He stroked her hair. "Breathe, like we learned."

Chloe started her Lamaze. When the contraction ended, Walter got out of bed and got dressed, then helped Chloe rise and change into a simple gown that they could just slip on over her head. Another contraction hit as she was stepping into her slip-on shoes. Walter coached her through it, then helped her out of the room. They negotiated the steps with care, hoping she wouldn't have another contraction halfway down. Luck was with them.

Elsie, awake with another bout of insomnia, stepped out of the kitchen, drawn by the noise. "Time?"

Walter nodded.

"Okay. Get her out to the car. I'll call Lila."

"Thanks." They made their careful, shuffling way out the front door, past the slumbering Nixon, down the porch steps, and out to the waiting car. Minutes later Elsie exited the house, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. It contained a change of clothes for Chloe and the baby along with a few other odds and ends they might need should their stay at the hospital be prolonged. Walter had forgotten all about it.

"'Kay," Elsie closed the back passenger door, "Let's go."

Walter pulled out of the driveway and onto the road. Beside him, Chloe groaned. Elsie reached over the seat and gripped her niece's shoulders. "C'mon, baby. Just remember what you learned at those overpriced classes of yours."

"They were _not_ overpriced!"

Walter smirked, knowing the older woman was distracting Chloe from her pain by deliberately annoying her.

Lila waited for them with a wheelchair at the ready. Chloe sat in it with a sigh of relief and Walter pushed her up the ramp to the town hospital's door. The doctor led him to a room she reserved for childbirths; a cozy place not unlike a room at a bed-and-breakfast, only the bed had stirrups.

"Alright," Lila said as her patient settled onto the mattress, "Let's see how far along you are." She removed Chloe's underwear, propped her feet in the stirrups. "Oh, you've got hours to go."

"_Hours?"_ Chloe gaped, thus proving that knowing about childbirth and experiencing it were two very different things. "I-I don't think I can handle that."

"Not much choice, I'm afraid, unless you wanna change your mind about the anesthetic."

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to take the risk."

"You sure?" Elsie asked, "'Cause I read once where a woman was in labor for thirty-six hours--"

"Elsie!" Chloe shouted, then started laughing in spite of herself, "You are an evil old hag."

Her aunt smirked.

The hours crept by. Walter remained at Chloe's side throughout her ordeal, coaching her breathing, wiping the sweat from her brow, giving her drinks of water. He only lost his composure once, when Chloe's water broke. She'd been standing at the time; Lila told them it was okay and even beneficial for her to walk around. They'd almost made it back to the bed when amniotic fluid gushed from between her legs and splashed all over the floor, some of it onto Walter's shoes. He gawped idiotically at the mess while Chloe panted helplessly from another contraction. Luckily, Elsie was there to help her back into bed.

"Walt, snap out of it and get your ass over here!"

Walter blinked, hurried to the bedside. "Sorry."

"It's alright," Chloe smiled.

Later, with only two centimeters to go and the contractions occurring one after the other, she was far less understanding. "I really hate you right now!"

"I know," he said, gripping her hand.

"Stop patronizing me!" Chloe shouted and jerked her hand away, "You're not the one going through this! All you had to worry about was how often you could stick it up my--_auugh!_" Her back arched. Her flailing hand grabbed hold of Walter's shoulder, fingers dug in so deep they left bruises, yet the redhead gritted his teeth, but didn't make a sound. When the contraction ended Chloe lay limp with exhaustion. "I can't do this," she sobbed, "It's too much. Get Lila. Tell her I wanna caesarean."

Walter wiped the sweat-matted hair from her brow. "You know she can't. You're too far along." He kissed her forehead. "It's almost over."

"I can't do it."

"Yes you can."

"_No I can't!"_

"Yeesh!" Elsie exclaimed as she walked briskly into the room, "I'm gone for ten minutes and you fall apart."

"Oh, shut up." Chloe sulked.

The sun rose well above the horizon when Lila returned. The doctor tied on a surgical mask, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and examined Chloe's vagina. "Ten centimeters," she her eyes squinted as she smiled at the expectant mother, "You're ready."

"Thank god!"

Lila adjusted the bed so Chloe had to sit up, her feet secured in the stirrups. Elsie stood at Chloe's left while Walter remained at her right, each holding one of her hands.

"Okay, Chloe," Lila said, crouched between the woman's splayed legs, "Wait for the next contraction, then push."

Chloe pushed, her head bowed forward, face soaked in sweat, hair plastered to her head and neck. She gritted her teeth and bore down with a loud grunt of effort. Her hands clenched themselves so tightly the knuckles turned white. Walter could no longer feel his own hand; it had gone numb from pain and lack of blood flow. Still he and Elsie uttered no complaint, only continued to encourage her as she exerted the last of her strength to bring the life she carried into the world.

Lila continued her supportive commentary. "Alright, almost there. Okay, there's the head. Wait a moment, Chloe, while I clear out the mucus plugs." She wielded a squeeze-bulb with a long tube that tapered out of it. There was a faint sucking noise as she cleaned out the baby's nose. "Okay, toughest part's over. One or two more good pushes should do it. C'mon, Chloe. One hard…push!"

Chloe cried out, then fell back against the mattress and went limp. She stared bleary-eyed at the doctor who was bent over the mattress, brow creased in a frown of concentration. There was a long, dreadful moment of utter silence in which the three family members feared the worst, then…the long sustained cry of the newly born.

Lila beamed. "It's a girl." She held the squalling infant up, one gloved hand supporting its weak neck. The baby flailed her rubbery limbs and shrieked at the top of her well-developed lungs, purplish skin agleam with amniotic fluids.

Walter saw Chloe's face transform into an expression of complete, all-encompassing joy. It was worth the long, drawn out hours of pain and screams just to see that radiant look on her face.

Elsie's free hand covered her mouth while tears flowed down her weathered cheeks. "She's beautiful!"

Lila cut the cord--after Walter politely refused--then cleaned and swaddled the new infant. The baby wailed the entire time as if in resentment of the doctor's handling. Walter wondered how something so small could have such lung power. Lila held the wriggling bundle out to him. "Would you like to hold your daughter?"

Walter hesitated, looked to his exhausted wife who smiled and nodded. With reluctant care, he accepted the small burden from the doctor. The moment she was in his hands, the child's cries grew silent. The purple color faded from the baby's skin; was now a lighter brown than her mother's, like coffee with a touch of cream. Her head was topped with wisps of auburn hair. A little hand freed itself from the swaddling and grasped Walter's thumb; tiny fingers with tiny fingernails, perfectly formed. They gripped with astonishing strength, as if afraid her father might disappear.

"Have you thought of a name?" Lila asked, ink pen poised over the birth certificate.

Guilt washed over him; he hadn't.

"Well?" the doctor prompted.

"I--"

The baby opened her eyes, twin orbs of ocean blue. His eyes. Walter stared, lost in their depths. The world around them faded. There was only her eyes. His little girl. She looked at him as if she'd always known him; a look of unquestioning trust. Walter understood now. For the first time in his life, he felt that he truly _mattered_. Everything, every moment, every trial and sorrow and agony he'd endured, his _life_; it all existed so that he could bring this tiny, fragile miracle into the world. This perfect little life cradled in his hands.

"Walter?"

He knew her name. Had always known. "Danielle."

Lila nodded. "And the middle name?"

A tightness in his throat, burning in his eyes. Wet drops pattered onto the swaddling. Walter realized he was crying. "Blaire."

"Danielle Blaire Charleson," Elsie murmured, hands pressed over her heart for fear it might burst forth from happiness.

Walter felt a light touch on his arm. He turned, met the loving gaze of his tired wife, her full lips curved in a gentle smile. Walter knelt beside her, placed the precious bundle in her arms. She gazed down at the infant's face with the same intense love that he felt.

"We have a daughter," he said, voice breathless with awe.

Chloe met his gaze with her own hazel eyes. Her smile broadened. "Yes we do."

The parents kissed. Their family complete. Danielle Blaire Charleson's ocean eyes drifted shut. She slept, safe in her mother's arms.

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"_Thermo-dynamic miracles…Events with odds against so astronomical they're effectively impossible, like oxygen spontaneously becoming gold. I long to observe such a thing. And yet, in each human coupling, a thousand million sperm vie for a single egg. Multiply those odds by countless generations, against the odds of your ancestors being alive; meeting; siring this precise son; that exact daughter…To distill so specific a form from that chaos of improbability, like turning air to gold…the thermo-dynamic miracle." --Dr. Manhattan_

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**A/N:** That is probably my favorite Dr. Manhattan quote. I feel like it's the best example of how you don't have to be religious to believe in miracles. They happen every moment of every day; all you have to do is look.


	22. In Sunshine or In Shadow

**A/N:** As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I'm something of a sap, as the ending to this story will bear out. Couldn't be helped. I liked the idea of Walter getting a happily-ever-after, so that's what I wrote. If you all don't like it, there are plenty of other grim fanfics out there for you to enjoy. If, however, you readers _do_ like my ending, then thanks! And thanks again to all of you who've been with me from the beginning and for all your supportive reviews. Look forward to getting more feedback with the stories I post in the future. :-)

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own Frederick Weatherly's song "Danny Boy." Chloe, Elsie, Hank, Nixon, and all the other residents of Jubilation, however, belong to me. So hands off!**

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Once the family returned home people from all over Jubilation stopped by throughout the day to greet the new arrival and inundate the house with bouquets of flowers until it felt like they were in a greenhouse. For once, Walter didn't mind the intrusions, still aglow from his newfound joy. His eyes rarely turned from the sight of his baby girl. He stood amongst a group of friends and neighbors with Danielle cradled in his arms, fast asleep from her recent feeding.

"She's so _little_," Craig gushed, his smile so broad it seemed the top of his head might fall off at any moment. He loomed over the newborn like a benevolent grizzly.

Adam agreed. "She's darling. Just look at that hair," he grinned, "Gonna break a lot of hearts when she grows up."

"Oh, yes," Myra nodded, "She's going to be such a beautiful young lady."

"Like her mother," said Walter, smiling tenderly at the baby in his arms.

"Can I see?" Alvin asked. Without thought, Fallon bent down to lift his son for a better view. Alvin did not object; the wonder of the moment pushed aside his misgivings towards his father for the time being. The boy stared at the newborn in friendly curiosity. He turned his dark gaze to Walter. "Can I touch her?"

Walter nodded.

Alvin's finger gently stroked a velvet-soft cheek. The slumbering infant turned her head towards the touch, mouth puckered in an unconscious search for a nipple. Alvin beamed.

Nearby, Chloe watched her husband amidst the crowd with a smile on her face. Henry stood beside her, a comradely arm around her shoulders. He shook his head. "Can't believe that's the same creepy guy I met almost a year ago."

Chloe's smile broadened. "He's utterly smitten."

"Who can blame him?" Henry smiled down at his friend, "Little angel looks just like her mother."

"She looks like both of us."

There came a knock at the door. Elsie broke from the group with great reluctance and went to answer it. "Deb! Viv! Come on i--oh!" She stepped back to let the family enter; the third person through the door was Jedidiah Charleson, uncharacteristically sober and dressed in a clean if rumpled suit. He approached the startled group which parted so that he stood before Walter, jaundiced eyes lowered, his signature antagonism cast aside.

"Come t' pay my respects," he mumbled.

Walter stared at the old drunk with an unreadable expression. The baby roused at that moment, little fists waving aimlessly in the air. Jedidiah lifted his eyes to stare at the wriggling newborn and something flashed across his face, something Walter saw when he first met the broken man in his shamble of a home. A look that said what-might-have-been. Walter took a step closer to the older man, gave him a closer look at the child. The baby regarded the sallow face above her with somber blue eyes.

"What's'r name?" asked Jed.

"Danielle."

"Hmf. Good name. Means wisdom." He reached out with a faintly trembling hand, worked his finger into the baby's curled fist which clenched around the larger digit with uncanny strength. "Hard ta believe," the older man murmured, "somethin' like this can come from people like us." His bloodshot eyes met those of the silent redhead and saw that he understood. Jedidiah returned his attention to the infant; a quiet hum emerged from him, unaware. He freed his finger from the baby's grip, turned without another word, and left. "Walk myself home," he muttered to his sister who watched him disappear through the front door with a troubled expression.

As the door latch clicked into place, Walter felt a sense of sadness for the lonely, bitter man whose son's name he now bore. Had things been different, had the real Hiram not died all those years ago, little Danielle might very well have been Jed's own granddaughter. The thought of losing his child brought Walter a sense of unimaginable pain. He understood now why Jedidiah locked himself away with his whiskey bottles and his wall of photographs of the family he'd lost. The true wonder was that he'd lingered for so long.

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Two days later, Deb Blascoe found her brother's body sprawled on the floor of his bedroom just beneath the framed photos of his long-lost son. Heart attack, the obituary said. Aside from Deb and her relatives, only Walter and Chloe attended the funeral. Their daughter remained at home in Elsie's care; a funeral was no place for a baby.

After Vernon completed his simple service and the casket was lowered into the ground, Deb approached the couple. The jaded woman's eyes were red and puffy, her smoker's voice raspier than usual. "Thanks for coming."

Chloe placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. "We're so sorry, Deb."

Deb's chin trembled, but she pulled herself together. "He left a note on his dresser. Guess he knew he wasn't gonna be around much longer. It was sorta his last will and testament." She reached into her oversized handbag, pulled out two objects. One of them was a teddy bear, old but so well preserved it might have been kept in a time capsule. The other was a framed photograph from Jed's wall, one where he knelt beside his little boy who sat in the saddle of a tricycle, face split in a toothy grin. Once again Walter was struck by the resemblance Hiram bore to himself at that age.

"Jed wanted you ta have these, for Danielle," she held them out, "Guess he figured she's the closest he got to bein' a grandpa." Deb's voice cracked on the last syllable. Her face began to crumple; tears rolled down her cheeks, smearing her makeup.

Walter took the two objects with almost reverential care. Chloe embraced the weeping woman, her own eyes shining with empathetic tears. "Thank you, Deb. He'll always be Grandpa to Danny."

Deb regained her composure and drew back, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "I think he'd've liked that." She looked at Walter. "You take damn good care of that baby, Walt."

"I will," he promised, as much to himself as to her. His free hand reached for Chloe's as they walked slowly back to their car, headed for home.

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Walter woke from an unhappy dream, saw by the glowing face of the alarm clock that it was hours still before daylight. He rose quietly from the bed, careful not to wake Chloe, and stepped out of the bedroom. He descended the stairs to the first floor. The eerie silence told him Elsie was sound asleep in her room for once. He went to the kitchen, switched on the light, blinked several times until his eyes adjusted. He opened the fridge, drew out one of the bottles Chloe had filled earlier that day. Danielle would wake soon, hungry and in need of a diaper change. Might as well prepare. Walter filled a pan with water, set it on the stove, stood the bottle in the middle of the water, and turned the burner on low. While the bottle heated, he wandered to one of the picture windows and pulled the curtain aside. He could just make out the silhouettes of the rows of planted vegetables in the garden, and to the side, the apple tree he'd planted just after Danielle was born. "Danny's tree," his wife called it. It would grow over the years as would their daughter. She would climb its branches when she was old enough, eat the fruit it bore. Perhaps it would be hers then.

He returned to the stove, turned off the burner and withdrew the bottle, tested the milk's temperature on his wrist. Walter exited the kitchen, turning off the light on the way, and went back upstairs. The first faint cries of the awakened infant reached his ears as he stepped onto the landing. Walter hurried to the nursery's door. He entered, set the bottle atop the dresser, and approached the crib.

"Hush," he murmured, lifting the struggling infant into his arms, "Daddy's here now." He rocked her gently back and forth, murmuring words of comfort. Danielle quieted, calmed by her father's voice and movements. Walter carried her to the changing table. Once he had her in a fresh diaper and he cleaned his hands with a sanitary wipe, he gathered his daughter into his arms once again, retrieved the bottle from on top of the dresser, and went to sit in the rocking chair. He eased the rubber nipple into the baby's mouth. Danielle began to suck with eagerness as her father rocked them in the chair. She gazed up at his gaunt, caring features with her large, innocent eyes. Walter smiled at his little girl and began to sing in a quiet voice; the same song he'd heard Jedidiah hum:

"_Oh Danny girl, the pipes, the pipes are calling_

_From glen to glen, and down the mountain side_

_The summer's gone, and all the roses falling_

'_Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide."_

The bottle empty, Walter set the empty vessel onto the floor beside the rocker, then rested the baby's head against his shoulder and patted her back. While he burped her, he continued the song.

"_But come ye back when summer's in the meadow_

_Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow_

'_Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow_

_Oh Danny girl, oh Danny girl, I love you so."_

"Urp."

Walter smiled, rose from the chair. He carried his daughter to the crib and lowered her onto the mattress, pulled the blanket he'd sewn over her tiny form. Beside her lay the teddy bear, nearly the same size as her. Already Danielle's eyelids were heavy with the onset of sleep. Her father watched over her until her breaths slowed and her flailing limbs grew still. Walter bent down to plant a feather-light kiss on her cheek, then turned to leave. He paused as his eyes caught sight of the nursery's wall where a photograph hung; a photograph of a smiling man beside his little boy on a tricycle. Walter stared at the picture for a moment, then stepped out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

Danielle lay in contented slumber, the sounds of her father's voice echoing in her memory. _"Oh Danny girl, oh Danny girl, I love you so…"_


End file.
